Days Of Enlightenment

New Blog!

2012-01-08T19:11:00.000Z

I have a new blog.
It is a lot more rough and ready than this one (if that's possible), and the entries are generally written via my mobile phone very quickly so are not edited or spellchecked. Originally, when I started this incarnation of the blog, I wanted to write something every day. But shortly after I was also trying to write "something of interest" everyday, or at least develop my writing standards - which is quite a different thing. In the end it became difficult for me to keep up and I just gave in. So I have started afresh with a new blog.

I hope that at some point I will start using this old blog to polish the more polish-able turds I drop in the other blog, if that makes sense. Anyhow, the new blog is there if you want it. My only ambition is to update it and have an entry for every day, irrespective of how short, badly written or boring the entry is. Let's see how long this one lasts...

Fear and Loathing in… Well Just About Anywhere, Really

2010-10-06T19:39:00.001+01:00

I was technically supposed be on holiday last weekend, but decided to opt against it and stay at home because of the dismal weather. Not that there is really such a thing as a holiday nowadays. Those ended once they bought us the technology to send emails to phones. At which point I started spending all my annual leave watching my workload slowly mount up on a tiny screen, until reaching an abrupt suffocating panic forcing me to spend the rest of their holiday one-finger poking at a tiny telephone key pad trying to resolve issues at home.

But who wouldn’t want to spend their holiday with the mighty hanging sword of Damocles, sitting in their pocket; the constant threat of having an afternoon ruined by an unprompted work-related call; never quite allowing you to relax properly and let yourself go? Thanks to technology the whole world is now merely an extension of my own office; bar the fact that it is seemingly more awkward, time-consuming and (thanks to roaming tariffs) rather costly to do work tasks from a remote area. So thanks for that technology. Thanks a lot.

In all honesty, I perhaps I am using the “mobile workplace” as a bit of a scapegoat. I can quite easily muster enough inner-turmoil from my own volition. Especially when going abroad. The cosmopolitan types (I’d essentially like to delude myself into being) aspire to travel as the great “mind-expander”. They’ll have inevitably gone back packing round Europe or Asia. I find this to be one of the things which sound both nice in theory, and often reviewed in fondness (where one can retrospectively bore family and friends with endless patronizing anecdotes about the Kibbutz from in front of the glowing safety of Holby City). But the bit in between seems like a living hell. Whenever I travel abroad, I prefer to go to the touristy places, preferably with an English-speaking bias. As a national representative, I am already carrying the stigma of strong lager, football violence, aggressively territorial promiscuity and - lest we forget - dubiously motivated warmongering. Frankly I do not need an inability to speak in a native tongue to compound my conveyance of ignorance. This is not to say that strong lager, football violence, promiscuity or warmongering are my particular forte. But I am never too far from my own personal ill-conceived prejudices. For instance, if the inability to read a language prevents me from being able to read a menu, I will almost certainly assume my meal will be along the lines of assorted freeze-dried budgies phallus, parboiled in a neo-communists’ tears. Or worse still – something with tofu in it. This summer I went to Krakov, and one of my eating companions ordered a ‘soup’ which basically consisted of a bowl of beetroot juice with a boiled egg floating in it. This is not what I’d call a soup. Having said that, whilst it might appear that I am having a cheap “tee-hee-at-foreigners-and-their-funny-ways”, had they added a handful of crisps and a pickled onion, my parents would have probably labeled it a salad back in the 80’s. So who the hell am I to judge?

One of the other places I took my ‘pocket office’ this year was Amsterdam. I have been there once before about a decade ago, but that was a stag do, so this time I wished to return for some of the City’s more cultural offerings. You can’t really suggest the Anne Frank museum to a stag do. Mass genocide really does tend to bring the party down. Even the most ardent stag party would shun than level of debauchery.

On paper, Amsterdam also seemed well-suited given my tourist self-consciousness, because I rather relished the opportunity to visit somewhere a little free and easier; with fewer oppressive formalities and customs to fret about. I won’t try and pretentiously pretend that the permissiveness of the city was not also a draw. I rather looked forward to the prospect of strolling round the Red Light District having a surreptitious peep at some of the windows. Although in practice, it was more a shamble past, eyes fixed on the floor, hoping to God that none of the women tried to make eye contact.

Similarly, I was consumed with childish glee at the prospect of reliving ‘days gone by’ and finding a coffee shop to indulge in some aromatic tobacco because I rather fancied the rare opportunity of being “blissed-out” for a change. At 32 years old, you could argue I was either looking to engage in a “when in Rome” cultural experience, or was simply having a premature mid-life crisis longing to recapture my youth. But once again, this would turn out to be something much better in theory than in practice because my companion and I just couldn’t find a coffee shop that looked comfortable enough. We peered through doorways into the poky smoke-holes. If they were busy they looked too lairy to enter. Perversely, the quieter once just seemed a bit seedy. I felt a bit like Goldilocks, but a child-censored crack-whore version Goldilocks concerned with the acquisition of drugs rather than porridge. But after endlessly traipsing round, we eventually steeled ourselves and bit the bullet, summoning the bravery to enter one of them, if only to rest our now weary legs. We made our seedy purchase, sat down, lit the end, and inhaled.

At this point you may expect me to start regaling you with crazy, psychedelic adventures on the streets of Amsterdam, or embark upon a series of enlightening thoughts that spun from my mind like spider’s webs, from a brain flew around so fast that whole new mental thought processes may be born within it through sentences that veer out of control, getting increasingly lost and hazy and head to no viable conclusion yet go on and on for far too long. That’s certainly what I thought anyway. Like a pretentious fop, I even rather laughably retrieved a notepad I had been carrying around to try and catch some of these passing flits. But after just three inhalations, the notebook started to make me feel a little vulnerable. And despite hiding it back in my pocket, self-conscious thoughts persisted, eventually giving way to plain old fear. The “when in Rome” argument of earlier had quickly been rejected, probably though the inescapable logic that I was in Amsterdam (thereby making the “Rome” argument completely redundant, by simple virtue of geography). But my mental state was now not equipped enough to face a midlife crisis, and this only made things worse.

Ten minutes later I was hidden away back in our hotel room. I use the term “hotel room” quite loosely, as it implies a sense of refuge. But it was actually more a cupboard with a bunk-bed and a sink chucked in. The walls were paper thin and the toilet was shared with the floor’s other inhabitants. As is symptomatically characteristic of aromatic tobacco, I lay in bed feeling enveloped by hunger. I could have easily headed out and found something to eat - after all, it was only about 8.30 in the evening for Christ’s sake. But in my altered state, the thought of going outside felt like a herculean task akin to Raiders of the Lost Ark. In fact even the thought of bumping into ANYONE AT ALL seemed like a terrifying prospect; which was quite frustrating, because this restricted me from going to the toilet which I quite needed. So the rest of the night was spent in my hovel, feeling resolutely paranoid, with the upper half of my stomach persistently rumbling, and the lower half feeling like it had Jeremy Clarkson squatting on it. Ah. Those precious holiday memories!

Consequently I have drawn the conclusion that trips away from the dull predictability of the office are not always necessarily the answer to relaxation and rejuvenation. What I could really do with is a holiday from my own stupid brain. If only technology could cater for that, like it did with the whole emails-to-phone thing, I’d be a very happy man indeed.

Over-Compensation Culture

2010-09-29T23:41:00.003+01:00

This isn’t, as the title may lead you to believe, a Quentin Letts style rant about Health & Safety laws gone mad. Should you wish to read that, I’m sure there’s loads column inches elsewhere that are concerned with how people can’t take responsibility for their own wellbeing, needing to hold a building accountable for their hapless actions. I have recently been involved in a courtroom as a witness defending against one of those cases, but sadly can’t remember enough about it to try and explore the experience here. All I predominantly recall about my day in court was how I found our barrister quite attractive. She was a youngish Oxford graduate and I couldn’t help but be slightly aroused by a woman with such an extensive use of vocabulary. Or maybe it was when she put the grey wig on that did it for me, giving a kind of illusive frisson - the attainable aspirations of gerontophilia, but with the actual real face of an achingly beautiful woman. It left me confused, but mildly stimulated. Make no bones - I liked it. But sadly, there isn’t time to go any further – we must press on. No matter how unlikely it is that you will read another phrase in this entry boasting the same caliber of “the attainable aspirations of gerontophilia”.

This is about a different kind of compensation, which on the surface is more psychologically altruistic than self-servingly financial. Let me give you an example.

I once found myself calling for a taxi quite late on a Saturday night. The switchboard informed me that they wouldn’t be able to provide a car for about an hour. Figuring that this was a weekend primetime for the taxi trade, I cut my losses and booked the cab anyway, deciding that I was rather peckish, and could easily fill the next hour in the Indian restaurant across the road.

The establishment was bustling with inebriated Saturday night revelers, who were slightly loud and excitable, but not particularly misbehaving. Nevertheless, I found myself self-consciously trying to draw a line between myself and the archetypal obnoxious, boorish drunken animal-men that sometimes frequent such environments, shamelessly wishing to let the staff to know I wasn’t one of them. So when the waiter arrived with the menu, I meekly proffered a “thank you… cheers… thanks a lot”. Similarly, when he bought over a glass of water, I said something like “oh cheers, thanks, thanks so much”. Then upon taking my order and collecting my menu from me I said, “that’s brilliant, cheers, thanks again”.

Predictably, when the food arrived I was similarly gushing. The only time I broke from my torrent of thanks-you’s, was to apologise for knocking my fork off the table on to my lap as I attentively attempted to make room for him to place my naan down. The level of appreciation I’d shown so far had been astounding, and I hadn’t even eaten a single bite yet. At this rate by the end of my meal, I would be collapsing to my knees, hands clenched together, weeping hysterical gratitude at the waiter’s shoes. I had embarked on a series of social over-compensations to convey an image of being a “nice guy”, yet was even starting to irritate myself with my over-politeness. Why was I doing this, I asked myself?

I suspect this quirk is borne of my Liberal guilt. It was as if my groveling wasn’t just about me and the here and now, I was also somehow attempting to apologise on behalf of any of my fellow caucasians that may have ever shown rancour or ignorance. Not just to the Asians who ran this particular restaurant, but throughout the whole of history. I wanted to show that I was not another white ignorant man, yet ironically this is actually exactly what I am. The only thing I ever learned about history was at school, through the GCSE syllabus. And I have absolutely no idea why I’d feel so inclined to apologise to the staff of an Indian restaurant for either the Agricultural, OR the Industrial Revolutions.

You may think there is nothing fundamentally wrong with manners. And I’d agree. However, there is a line to be drawn between civility and my toadying, liberal (and arguably rather patronizing) over-compensation. And I would learn exactly where this line following the acquisition of second hand furniture from a gay man. When I arrived at the house to collect these goods, the brazenness of this particular man’s sexuality took me quite by surprise, and provoked a predictably pathetic attempt to demonstrate how much I wasn’t a homophobe through my trademark over-friendliness. Before I knew it we had exchanged phone numbers and I found myself getting text messages inviting me for a drink. You could argue the implications of my assumptions of any romantic intent were arrogant; that it was merely innocent friendliness which had motivated his invitation. Perhaps such a presumption even seems homophobic in itself. You might well be right. But whenever my friends text me to see if I fancy a drink, very few of them conclude that text with a little kiss. Furthermore, this interaction seemed only to cease following a text I sent where I referenced both my irritable bowel syndrome and the rather hirsute nature of my anal area. Incidentally, the comment itself bore no intended terminative motive, I was merely crafting a clumsy conversational response. Anyone who reads this blog will know I ALWAYS reference my irritable bowel whenever the opportunity arises. Look – I’m even doing it now!

Sometimes wonder just how accommodating I might have been, had the interaction continued. On paper it sounds ridiculous. Yet they do say we live in a compensation culture. This disgruntles many commentators, who see it being exploited for financial gain. I, on the other hand, am more concerned about having to oblige an anal consummation, just to carry on being polite.

Back By Popular Demand

2010-09-26T15:06:00.001+01:00

Yes. You have read that rather bombastic title correctly. In order to gratify the constant requests of my regular fan-base, I have decided to resurrect my blog and attempt update it with a little more consistency.

Admittedly, when I say “Fan-base” I am actually referring to someone I bumped into in a pub. Technically more a friend than a fan, he was. And when I say “constant requests” I am referring to said friend casually asking if I’d “done any more of that blogging of late”; a telling statement also compelling me to concede the dubious credulity in claiming this fan-base is in any way “regular” (as presumably if he were, he would already be well aware whether I’d done any more of “that blogging of late”). But sadly, this is all the encouragement I need to get me going. I’ll take all the compliments I can get, no matter how tenuous - a proclamation I seem to remember also making in my last entry, hereby making “I’ll take all the compliments I can get” some kind of catchphrase. And with catchphrases like that, I bet Catherine Tate must be shitting herself.

Perhaps the reason I feel obliged to re-appropriate casual remarks as compliments is to counter-balance the off-handed insults that casually got bandied towards me that very same evening. I was out with Alan Apperley (incidentally, Alan recently released his debut novel “Indeterminable Creatures” which is rather excellent and should definitely be purchased, by you, from here. You’ve no excuse not to really). I was having an otherwise pleasant evening, when Alan’s wife suddenly asked me how old I was. For some reason, I have not yet learned my lesson, choosing once again to respond with THAT fateful question, despite the pain it always inevitably causes nowadays (and embarrassment it causes the other party – I hope). You know the one. Yes, that’s right – the one that you invariably always regret ever asking, but become too consumed by curiosity and misguided optimism to resist. Yes THAT question - the verbal equivalent of willing smacking yourself in the face with a trowel.
“Well how old do you think I am?” I ventured.
Depressingly, she punted at 36.

I know it’s my own fault, I should have known better than asking. But still, thirty-fucking-six?! Truly dismal! What makes it worse is that one would assume she has probably guessed my age then taken the obligatory few-year buffer of politeness off, meaning that to the casual observer I must have the appearance of a man knocking on the door of 40. It never used to be this way. Whenever people guessed my age whilst I was in my twenties, I would always come out as looking slightly younger than my actual age. Yet since hitting thirty, the guesses have seen a clear numerical advance in years, leading me to believe my appearance must have worryingly advanced roughly a decade in the space of 30 months. I sat for a while, zoned out of the conversation, contemplating what could have possibly aged me so much? Thankfully her husband was on-hand with an inadvertent answer though a third-party conversation he was having with someone else. They were talking about some chap or other they knew who was being referred to as “one of them baldies”, when suddenly, Alan felt the need to turn round and address me with a “no offense” gesture. I genuinely didn’t know what he was getting at, and looked over my shoulder, assuming he must have been referring to someone behind me. I regard myself as having a degree of self-awareness and whilst my head of hair is undoubtedly diminishing, I have only ever seen it as a bit of a recede, at worst a slightly limp-fronted and pervy Jack Nicholson. This was the first time I had been classified as an actual “baldy” – y’know – a proper “baldy”; so naturally my incredulity obliged me to draw attention to and consequently attempt to refute his comment. He responded by saying nothing, but merely lifting up my fringe with his hand and omitting a coy and disconcerting grin, with his stupid Tony Blair-esque face.

Well as you can imagine, the night had been ruined for me. I caught the next bus home and spent the remainder of the evening in front of the mirror, pulling my hair backwards and forwards. And I was quite shocked by how far things had gone, but I still don’t believe what I witnessed makes me a proper baldy. Were my face the character on your opponent’s card in the game “Guess Who?” and you asked if his card was a baldy and he said yes, I struggle to believe you would leave me standing beside Richard, Tom, Bill and Herman. Not just yet, anyway. Though undoubtedly, the rate of my recede now certainly makes this ‘proper baldy’ tag a strong forthcoming probability. And I have Alan to thank for this particular enlightenment. By rights I should have gone home and started TEARING HIS BLOODY NOVEL UP INTO TINY SHREDS. But I am not the type of churlish man who would allow rancor to corrupt his taste and would still recommend his novel to you, my readership , because it is genuinely brilliant. I can honestly say it is well worth the money. At the time of writing, the novel’s been out for 6 months and is currently retailing at about 24 pence on Amazon. But obviously my readership - which ostensibly consists of one reader - only looks at this blog very sporadically so by the time you get here, it might be best to check Amazon yourself to see if it’s any cheaper. Better still, why not email Alan directly and ask him to confirm Amazon’s price valuation of his work for you?

The prospect of losing my hair is not something I am particularly happy about, mainly because I am still single. And nobody can fall in love with a baldy, can they? It just doesn’t really happen. Sure, you see baldies who are married. It’s not that a baldy can’t be loved because you do see them around, all married and stuff. Quite brazenly married too, with their shiny heads and all. Like it’s the most natural thing in the world. But I believe it is an evolutionary measure rather than a coincidence, that most baldies become baldies at certain age, when they have had a sporting chance to entrap a mate. So a lot of them are already safely married before they have the audacity to fully recede. And by this time, their respective partners just learn to live with it; ideally seeing past the desolate cranium, able to appreciate the security, life aspirations, history, trust and love which has developed between them in the interim. Or at the very least, viewing balding as a flimsy premise to end a relationship, consequently feeling obligated to stick with their baldy to the bitter end as an act of compassion, in the same way they might do had their husband fallen foul to a debilitating illness, or disfiguring accident. Either way, the point is that I don’t have that luxury. And the last thing I need is yet another obstacle to hinder my already moribund sex life. The only consolation being that at least my baldy gene will not receive the opportunity to get passed on to any poor, unwitting offspring. Evolution always finds a way.

So here I am again, back by popular demand.
Basically mourning the fact that the same can’t be said about my hair.

Bruce's Stag Weekend

2010-09-22T21:46:00.002+01:00

The stag do is a concept which probably best epitomizes masculinity in the modern age. Yet it seems for someone like me, stag weekends have the rather astonishing ability to allow the word “man” to be something that is simultaneously literal, yet oddly tenuous.

This particular stag-do begins in a car park in Manchester on a bright sunny Friday morning, and I am standing in shorts next to my parked-up Nissan Micra feeling a sense of dread and nervousness.

Perhaps you believe that irrespective of how happy and fulfilling the resulting outcome of his wedding should hopefully turn out to be, if anything, it should have been the stag’s liberty to feel any doubts, stresses and apprehensions. But this does not make my own fears any less genuine. Because he might well be approaching the life-changing transition of matrimony, but in less than an hour’s time, I will be playing football. And whilst I do not intend to sound like I am belittling whatever pressures or sense of occasion the stag may feel, I would argue that what I was about to do was definitely braver.

Let me explain why, using the following three points.

1) I have not kicked a football since school.
2) School was a very long time ago.
3) I was no good at kicking a football even when I was at school.

That last point cannot be overstated. I really was no good a kicking a football. That is not to lazily assume I was always the kid cursed with the indignity and humiliation of being picked last for the teams in P.E.; because in my defence, it was usually more 50/50 between me and this other lad, who had chronic asthma and six toes on his right foot (the latter should not be regarded as particularly exceptional, given the type of small rural West Midlands village I grew up in). Yet even if this hadn’t been the case, there wasn’t a single thing I ever enjoyed about the sport, even right down to the attire. Particularly the shorts. I have never felt more vulnerable either before or since those old P.E. days. I went to school in the eighties, when shorts really did mean shorts. I just never trusted them. The impending threat of popping out of them was all too prominent, and I’m not trying to be boastful either; this was a threat that was irrespective to the size of one’s decidedly averaged sized genitalia. It genuinely wouldn’t surprise me if the writers of the film Basic Instinct, had actually gathered some inspiration from seeing us sat on the benches in our school changing room. In fact retrospectively, the timing of the film’s release coinciding with our school days seems suspiciously impeccable.

And then there was the game itself; which for me personally, seemed to entail hovering uselessly about on a field impatiently awaiting the sound of a shrill whistle. Not a noise commonly associated with beauty, but which I became conditioned to believe sounded like a choir of heavenly angels. If the ball went into the top half of the pitch, I might, at a push, jog a few paces forward in a conceited attempt at enthusiasm. Or if the action entered our half of the pitch, I might half-heartedly trot a few paces the other way. On some rare occasions some deluded idiot would kicked the ball towards me (or “pass” it, as I believe is the correct terminology). Whenever that happened, I’d stand frozen in bewilderment, as a herd of twenty schoolboys stampeded toward this spherical thing I'd unwittingly found in my possession (not a sentence I am proud of that one, and certainly less so were it quoted out of context). My instinctive resolve was always to run round and round the ball in some sort of panicky circle for a while not knowing quite what to do, before finally opting to kick this round article (or ‘football’ as I believe is the correct terminology) toward any old random wilderness; sometimes at the feet of someone from my team, sometimes to a member of the opposition. That was ostensibly my whole game-plan in its entirety, and mostly it kept me reasonably successful in my heady aspirations of sporting underachievement.

So as you can imagine, football was only a game I would have ever played under duress. And yet here I was, about to do something I detested under my own volition; and since we were hiring 5-aside indoor soccer pitch between us, I was actually PAYING for the privilege. Furthermore, the more astute of you may have noticed that this was a FRIDAY morning, so I had even taken a day’s holiday off work to be putting myself through this! What on Earth had led me here? To this car park in Manchester? To do something that now seemed suddenly much less preferable to a day at work?

One (or more) of the following three points may be possible explanations:-

1) I am the sort of person who will generally agree to do anything. So long as it’s in the future. So long as there is a buffer of time ahead of me to provide a nice cushion, I will be pretty much amenable to most ideas.
2) Subconsciously this may possibly have something with my similarly previously documented hypochondria. Perhaps I only agree to do stuff in the future because I assume I’ll already be dead before they arrive.
3) Preceding the agreement of my participation, I may have had a particularly good gym session that charged me with endorphins and hubris. “Why not play football?” my brain might have asked. “You have put the hours in at the gym. You’re certainly a lot fitter than you used to be at school. You never know, given the benefit of age and experience, you might just get on the pitch and something might suddenly click into place and you’ll start playing like Bobby Charlton!” (Note to self, don’t listen to brain – the resulting ache alone, which followed the game would soon be enough to heavily disprove such a flimsy theory).

Co-incidentally, the Stag party comprised mainly of a lot of people who I had been to school with, and had not really seen since my salad days (ironically named, since I ate far fewer salads back then). This was quite good, because expectations of my prowess would be low. But there were also some of the stag’s more recently-made friends who I had never met before. And the one thing that seemed to unite them was that they were all men who now had families, or were in long-term relationships and successful jobs and arrived in cars whose models were called things like ‘BMW Hercules’ or ‘Rover Thor’, which is quite humbling for a man who drives a Nissan Micra at 32 and furthermore feels immense gratitude that he can afford to do so. And whilst I know that Rover Thor and BMW Hercules aren’t actually real names, the fact that my knowledge and enthusiasm towards cars is so tenuous only serves to diminish the already pitiful number of points on my ‘Top Trump card’ of masculinity even further.

I knew my old school chums would be well aware of my lacking sporting prowess, but it was the people I had not met before who I worried most about. I am socially anxious and find it difficult to get to know new people at the best of times, so the thought of having to do so through my incompetence on a football pitch seemed fraught with potential humiliation. And this was an anxiety I held before it was revealed to me that a referee had been booked especially for our game; effectively meaning I would now also be paying towards having my incompetence and humiliation professionally observed and assessed. I suspect that was the very moment my sense of maleness was so low, that I was half considering skipping the post-match shower, just in case I found that my penis suddenly became inverted.

But y’know... The game wasn’t that bad after all. Don’t get me wrong, I did not suddenly play with the ability of Bobby Charlton like my briefly deluded brain briefly suspected I might. I didn’t even play with the ability of Bobby Davro, truth be told. But it was ok. I gave it a shot. And once in a while some of the more seasoned players even gave me the odd compliment for my efforts at tacking and saving a goal (my football knowledge is so lacking that it was impossible to tell whether I was merely being patronized. But fuck it, I took the compliments anyway). And despite the fact that Dave Barnett received an excruciatingly painful ankle injury, leaving him writing in agony, allowing him to be liberated the pitch (the lucky bastard), I did get ample opportunity to play in my favorite position a fair bit. (My favourite position being substitute, obviously).

And with the much-dreaded football game all done, survived and out of the way, it was time to enjoy the rest of the stag weekend.
“So what are we doing tomorrow?” I casually asked Bruce as we left the changing room.
“Oh, there’s a home derby on nearby”, he replied, “Think we’re going to see that. Stockport vs. Macclesfield”.

But this wasn’t the only nasty surprise that would be sprung on me. Apparently the too-good-to-be-true budget price City centre apartments that had been booked for our stay had no on-site parking. And the nearest car-park I could find to our accommodation was at the Arndale Centre. The nasty surprise being that parking cost £25 per night! You can call me tight-fisted if you must, but it seemed absurd for my car to stay in accommodation that was almost as expensive as mine. £50 to park for the weekend! It’s not like the car-park even had any ensuite facilities. Thank God it was just a “stag-weekend”. For had it been a stag “fortnight”, because given the market value of my car, then technically, it would have been cheaper for me to have just driven my Micra into the nearest scrap-yard and simply just left it there.

The Stockport vs. Macclesfield game wasn’t all that bad. I have not been to a football match for about 12 years, because I always found them so mind-numbingly dull. But nowadays they can be much more enjoyable, thanks to the advent of mobile technology which at least allows you to tit around on the internet for 90 minutes. However, for any other non-football fans reading, I must pass on a small piece of cautionary advice. At one point I looked up to witness a goal being scored, and in order to show a bit of polite interest, I burst into enthusiastic applause. Obviously, being a dispassionate observer, I didn’t actually care that Stockport had attained a goal, and was pretty much faking it. A bit like an orgasm that the wives of some of those disgusting, clammy football-loving faces must also feel obliged to fake. But unfortunately, I had not done enough ground-level research, so had failed to ascertain that we were located in the Macclesfield end. Consequently, I found myself the recipient of dagger glances. And to let me tell you, these lower division football fans are not the type of people one would wish to disgruntle. Honest to God, I had seen some of them buy pies, proper pies, in a round foil pie dish, then (and this is the astonishing part) just eat them WITH THEIR OWN BARE HANDS. No word of a lie, they devoured them without using ANY CUTLERY WHATSOEVER! These football types are like savages or something!

I mentioned this to one of the stag party, who seemed genuinely nonplussed by my observation, as if going to see football and eating a pie with your fingers, is the most natural thing in the world. Maybe it is. I wouldn’t know. As I have mentioned several times before, I am not really much of an authority on maleness. In fact at times throughout this weekend, I started to suspect I was simply just not made of the sufficient “man”-stuff required for stag do’s, like I was in some way unqualified. I even began thinking I’d possibly be more suited to hen dos. I’ve seen them hen parties round the town – squealing in equal measures of excitement and despair, and drinking blue drinks. That doesn’t seem as hard. I reckoned I could easily do that.

Or could I? On both Friday and Saturday night I would be the first to retire to the apartment. Yet I did so with a degree of self-justifying nonchalance, convincing myself that my restraint was borne of some situational upper-hand. I reasoned that 1am was a perfectly acceptable time to head home. As I mentioned earlier, most of the party are in settled relationships. It is probably rare they get such an opportunity nowadays, and having obtained a “free pass” from their respective partners to engage In this debauchery, it is natural they would wish to take full advantage of it and stay out as late as possible, and live like they were over-excited teenagers once more. Bless ‘em. But this is not such a novelty for me. I am a single man. I don’t have the responsibility of compromise with other people like my friends do. I could be out late indulging in this sort of debauchery EVERY SINGLE NIGHT if I so choose. That’s right, EVERY NIGHT! Admittedly I spend most nights alone, lying face down in my pillow crying myself to sleep because of the aching loneliness of my existence. But that’s irrelevant: at least I’ve got the option.
Perversely this trip actually allowed me a rare opportunity to spend the night in a shared bed. Actually, perhaps “perversely” is not a particularly great word to use in this context, as I was sharing a bed with Ben; the best-man who’d been a close friend of mine at school. He has lived in the North-West since moving there at university age. I have not seen much of him in the intervening years, but he has changed very little. Although I think there may have been a degradation in his bowels if I’m to be honest, as I seemed to spend the night in a dense cloud of his perpetual, never-ending supply of flatulence. Still – it was nice that we could still feel comfortable enough to share such an intimacy after all this time, because surely you can’t get much more intimate than having particles of someone else’s fecal matter wafting up your nose for the duration of a night.

So that just about sums it all up. It wasn’t until returning to the multistory car park on the Sunday morning that I was able to reflect on the weekend. And despite what this blog may have led you to believe, in all seriousness I really had actually enjoyed this stag-do. Any initial reticence about seeing old school friends would turn out to be completely unfounded. I feared the last 14 years and their acquisition of posher cars, more lucrative careers and kids might leave a social void between us; but it was just like the old days again, as if we were all back at school in the science labs or something. So much so, that when I got into the drivers’ seat, I even found a crocodile clip that someone had surreptitiously attached to the back of my shirt.

Ah how the old memories came flooding back…

Music To Perspire To

2010-07-10T15:33:00.003+01:00

On Thursday, I left my cosseted suburban existence to catch a gig in London, as I am a fully formed adult now. On the way I met up once again with the promoter whom I had an extreme fit of perspiration in the company of. Since writing that particular entry, there has been another occasion that I have been struck by an attack of irrepressible self-moistening. According to my personal journal, this was on Fri 4th June. A date I should be able to remember with ease, since it was a very special day for one of my friends from school, who was betrothing himself in matrimony that day; and I had been invited along to witness the occasion.

(NOTE - When I say “friend from school”, I do mean a person I befriended whilst attending school as a pupil. I feel obliged to clarify this, as a little further on in this entry, I will have been victim of a major sweating outbreak, and will have lank greasy hair stuck flat to my forehead; thus fitting the perfect stereotypical appearance of a dubious person who might well wish to ingratiate himself schoolchildren. Which I assure you I am not.)

It was a wonderful day for a wedding. There was not a cloud in the sky. I suspect it may have been the sunniest day of the year so far. But the first mistake I made was agreeing to wait for my mate Neil to call by my house so we could walk to the church together. Because Neil is always invariably arrives late for everything. It is the only consistently reliable thing in his nature.

Whilst I do not consider myself most au fait with social convention, I am pretty confident that arriving at a wedding, effectively following the bride down the aisle is not deemed particularly appropriate behaviour. So dressed in full three-piece suit attire, Neil and I were obliged to run to church in order to prevent such a faux pas occurring. Thankfully we did manage to beat the bride’s arrival, but given the amalgamation of heavy clothing, the temperature and the act of running, my breathless entrance to the church managed to make me feel like I was turning the occasion into some weird real life re-enactment of the ending from the film “The Graduate”.

The usher seemed a bit flummoxed by our last minute arrival too, as all the seats in the church seemed to be occupied, bar for a few at the very front; which, to my immense surprise, he continued to lead me to. I knew at the time he was making some sort of mistake. And so did everyone else seated in the church. As I followed him down the aisle, I did not dare look at the other guests, but I could feel their eyes looking at me. And upon taking my seat, I could still feel their glances burning the back of my neck. It was at that moment the sweating began in earnest. For even given my ignorance of formal social conventions, even I know that these seats are reserved for specific alumni. To the other guests I must have been exuding a certain amount of hubris, appearing as if I considered myself important enough to turn up to a church last, and then arrogantly assume my place alongside the bride and grooms’ family. But at this stage, the last thing I desired was to draw further attention to my profusely sweating face. All I could do was sit there feeling socially helpless. And rather damp.

Since I had seemingly lost the ability to take responsibility for myself, it would eventually be the Best Man who would save me from my plight. He kindly (and thankfully) grasped control of the matter, by locating a store room with chairs, and placing one at the very back of the church for me. This relegation meant that I would no longer have any sort of view for the ceremony itself. But I cared little. At least I was now hidden away out of view, tucked behind the other guests, where I could commence my sweating with a degree of privacy. The only person that paid me any attention was a young mother sitting in the row in front of me, who had happened to looked round. She took pity on me, and kindly offered me a wet-wipe. Initially I thought this was some sort of cruel joke, since conceptually, adding a moist wipe to a moist face seemed devoid of being any practical assistance. But the wet wipe actually ended up doing the trick nicely, managing to cool my face, and I was soon able to enjoy some of the ceremony with a degree of comfort. I must find out who that lady was, and thank her sometime.

Which brings me to my meeting in London with the promoter on Thursday. I am rather afraid to say that my body temperatures fared no better than on our last meeting. Which makes me feel a degree of chagrin. The recent onset of these intense and untimely perspiration attacks seem very unfair. Why on Earth have they started to happen now? Were I unfit I could understand them, but I currently live a healthier lifestyle than I’ve ever done previously. I eat healthily, have a better regime than ever, and whilst not strictly teetotal, I am not the drinker I was in years gone by.

In my defence, we are in the middle of a major heat-wave. And I did have to carry a heavy rucksack full of scratching around London. Yes that is right – there is no need to re-read that sentence. On learning of the meeting my boss couldn’t resist the opportunity for more nepotism, and requested I took a bag of pork scratchings as a gift for each member of staff. I figure he thought this as a slightly kooky West Midlands thing to do for a bit of a laugh. But it is still fundamentally depressing to think that I have been working in the entertainments industry for twelve long years now, and I have been reduced to carting a rucksack of dead pig’s skin across London, like some weird Pied Piper for the capitals’ stray dogs. Imagine how that would look to the Transport Police on the tube. Thank heavens I never had the indignity of being searched. Twelve fucking years long my career I tell you, and this really the best I can aspire to? The life of some slightly dubious, anti-Semitic working-class fluffer? And to further such indignity, when I got there, they didn’t even want them!

Oh well - looking on the bright side, at least the stench from my rucksack might in some way mask the stench of stale sweat. If these attacks continue to be a problem, I may have to take to wearing nothing but an impractically tight pair of Speedos to such meetings and formal occasions. But I hope that there will not be a need to take such measures and this is just a passing phase, or something I can learn to control; having so far ascertained three fundamental lessons.

1) Don’t eat whole chillies
2) Don’t go jogging in a full suit
3) Don’t carry a heavy rucksack of Pork Scratchings on a hot day.

And for the benefit of people who have never suffered such problems, I have made a short compilation mix, featuring the music which I believe best evocative of the sticky, clammy feelings of an intense hot summers’ day, so that you may be able to empathise with my plight in some way. I have called it “Music To Perspire To” and you can download it here.

And whilst demostrating such an unashamed level of self-indulgence, here is another chance to download my own musical/monologue collaboration for as long as the link lasts.

Yet Another Cautionary Tale About Why You Should Never Have Any Aspirations

2010-04-11T20:49:00.001+01:00

“You might as well just go for it. Whatever happens, you’ve got nothing to lose. It’s not like it will cost you anything”, they say. I am referring to the words of other people, when you find yourself once again procuring a job interview for a vacancy you now feel ambivalent towards. But don’t be fooled; their advice is little more than a flawed lie. Because other people talk rubbish. Fundamentally they must hate you. Or is it just me?

The interview I had been invited to attend was scheduled at quite short notice, so the chances of getting a cheap advance train booking had long passed. Bottom line it would be £60 each way; thus in its very cost exposing their first lie. Yet these other people continued with their fantastical blabbering.

“Why don’t you drive up the night before after work and stay in a Premier Inn?” they suggested, “You could spend a nice evening in Brighton – turn it in to a bit of a trip too. And then when you wake up, rather than having to make a long journey in the morning, fretting about hold-ups and finding the interview destination, you can relax, clear your head and have a casual stroll along the beach. “

It doesn’t seem like bad advice on paper, does it? It almost sounds practical. Well that’s what they want you to think. Haven’t I told you already? Other people talk rubbish. Because by the time I arrived (past 11pm, after getting lost for two hours trying to locate the damn Premier Inn in a pedestrian area via a car, with a sat nav determined to procure me several fines for driving in bus lanes), there was little time to explore Brighton. In fact there was precious little time to make it before last check-in. At least there was some sense of pleasure accrued from the relief of my eventual arrival. Something about booking into and waking up in hotel room all by myself gave me a peculiar sense of being an adult. Pathetic really. I am 32 years old.

In fairness, amongst all their lies, there was some solitary advice that these other people got right; I did wake up feeling refreshed. I had a leisurely lie in bed watching BBC Breakfast News a while, before showering, donning my best interview suit and pulling open the curtains to survey the beautiful bohemian seaside town before me. It was absolutely pissing down.

The interview wasn’t until 2.30pm and check out time for the hotel was 11am, so the intervening time was spent jogging from cafe to cafe, in order to avoid turning up at my interview looking like an elephant who’d walked through a car wash. Now I like coffee as much as the next man, but three and a half hours of solid coffee drinking would surely waiver anyone’s enthusiasm towards the beverage. Oddly enough, such level of caffeine consumption in solitary, brooding cafe environment doesn’t become particularly amenable to settling to one’s nerves either.

In fact by the time it was nearing 2.30, I was so wired with pinball anxiousness that I seriously considered bailing out and heading home. But something willed me on. Not sure what. I don’t think it was the desire for the job providing me with motivation anymore. More likely it was the thought of the petrol , hotel and inflated Brighton cafe costs going to waste whilst not even having any of the much-acclaimed ‘interview experience’ to show for it. Although I suspect such lauding of ‘interview experiences’ is yet another ill-fated advisory rhetoric of those “other people” I was telling you about earlier. Because minutes before heading over to my interview, I was forcefully obliged to relieve the heavy contents of my agitated, coffee-ridden bladder; which, I grant you, should be a fairly simple and mundane procedure; one which I performed to text-book perfection. I’ve never understood men who don’t bother washing their hands afterwards though. Through the performance of this ritual of hygiene, I believe myself to be in a courteous minority. Much to my own disservice. Because rather than the conventional and conveniently pressure-controllable dial-taps, these ones were those press-down sorts. The water pressure was far from shy. And I held my hands underneath the flow, inadvertently being in a position to direct the tap’s heavy geyser-like gush toward the general fly-hole and upper inner-thigh area of my suit trousers. I almost suspect these taps may have been some sort of elaborate joke set-up. Especially since there were no air dryers I could use to draw damage limitation from. Just one of those paper-towel dispensers containing some teal-green sheets which, after a slightly aggressive and desperate rub, provided little benefit beyond leaving a light, dusty residue to draw attention to any of the remaining moisture on my groinal area.

With damp, teal flecked trousers, I entered into my appointment with a panel of prospective employers. Predictably, the interview itself didn’t go all that well. Upon arrival I was asked if I would like a glass of water. I declined, mainly because I have a hang-up about putting people out. I feel awkward when people want to do things for me. I am the type of person who says ‘thank-you’ far more than is actually necessary. I can’t merely accept the altruist gestures of others. It makes me uncomfortable. I felt as though I should be asking the interview panel if I could fetch THEM a glass of water. But she pressed the issue further, saying that she’d fetch me one anyway, and I could always drink it should I became thirsty during the interview. This time I relented. To be honest, I was pleased the small plastic cup was insisted upon me. The levels of coffee I had consumed this morning had perversely made my mouth and throat all claggy and dry. I was oddly dehydrated. So thirsty in fact, that when she bought the cup over, I kind of forgot myself, contradicting my earlier protestations by taking an immediate massive swig from the vessel. The first question had been whether I wanted a glass of water, yet apparently I couldn’t even answer that one correctly. How was I going to fare with real when the real interview questions were fired at me?

The immediate realisation of my faux pas wrong-footed me and I was concerned that it would be a preface that would pretty much set the tone for the following 30 minutes. I needn’t have worried, as I found that my appointment had drawn to a premature conclusion by 3.50; which seemed quite surprising, having felt like I’d been in there at least four days. As I stood in the entrance hall of the building preparing to leave, I felt rather gutted to have spent a couple of hundred quid and a 350 mile round trip on what was effectively a bad interview. The briefness of my 20 minutes with the panel was evidence enough that things had not gone particularly well, and that it would be very unlikely I’d be the candidate filling their vacancy. But in their defence, how could they possibly have entrusted me with this new position? I had walked into that interview donning the appearance of a man who didn’t even know the appropriate times in which fluid should be entered and expelled from his own body!

Before stepping out the door, one of the staff members asked, “How did you get here all the way from Wolverhampton?”
“By car.” I replied.
“That’s a shame.” She said, “I should have told you before you came, we’re paying expenses on all train tickets”. For one final time, I had fallen foul of the suggestions of other people.

I was pleased I put myself through the process, but also disappointed with myself (and the shoddy advise of other people, obviously). I certainly can’t think of much worse torment than facing the indignity of failure. Well – aside from the prospect of being called for a 2nd interview of course.

Open Letter To The Toilet Guy

2010-02-09T21:16:00.002Z

This is a personal message for the chap with those squirty bottles of hand soap and a pile of paper towels, who stands in the men’s toilet at The Varsity in Wolverhampton.

Dear Sir,

I suspect your employment from the management of Wolverhampton Varsity was intended to give the illusion of “class” to what can otherwise only be described as some of the worst toilets I have ever used in my life. Whilst you cannot be blamed for the state of the facilities, I hope the following feedback will be beneficial for the procurement of greater income in the future.

I would have been more willing to leave a tip in your tray had you offered to stand guard at the door of my cubicle. This would have been handy, what with the lock being broke and all. However, I appreciate that this may have been a little bit too much to expect of you. But since the toilet roll dispenser had also been ripped off the wall, it would have been both a pleasant and useful gesture for you to have offered me some of your paper towels from your pile when you saw me entering the cubicle. I do not think such pro-active assistance towards my anal cleanliness would have been too demanding. It’s hardly like I was expecting you to get down on your hands and knees and ‘rim’ me clean or anything.

If we examine the service you did offer, could I be bold enough to suggest that you may have your sales pitch all wrong. Ironically, the soap dispenser and the air towel are really the only things that function properly in those so-called ‘conveniences’. For this reason, your services of washing and drying men’s hands are effectively redundant. Could I suggest you develop a more captive market by fusing the air towel and emptying the soap dispenser at the start of each shift? Judging by the state of the other facilities, I am confident the Varsity management would neither notice, nor care about your sabotage. Otherwise, as far as I can see, you are little more than a man who has to spend his shift enduring particles from other people’s scatological expulsions drifting up his nostrils. And while this may not be the most pleasant undertaking, I genuinely fail to see why you consider this task of enough necessity to warrant any sort of monetary payment.

I would have offered this advice at the time. Only I was too preoccupied; shuffling from the wash basins to the exit, with my eyes fixed on the floor, desperately trying to avoid your gaze.

Blakey Related Injury

2010-01-11T20:53:00.000Z

Reign your sympathies on me, for I am ill with the dreaded lurgee. Not quite ill enough to call in sick from work, but just about enough to make my day a grinding punishment. All last night I’d been cursed with a perpetually leaky face. My nose was like an unrelenting tap of dripping mucus. This morning, I awoke to a similar kind of volume of screwed-up tissues surrounding my bed as an untidy pubescent boy might at the end of a particularly uneventful summer holiday. But let me assure you, at my age, it was all definitely nose mucus. More’s the pity. That’s the problem with ailments. There’s never any illnesses with ‘pleasant’ side-effects, is there. They always involve tedium, pain or misery so the best you can ever aspire to, is feeling just plain old back to normal like you were before. Just for the sake of counter-balance, why can’t we have ‘nice’ symptoms with a cold too, rather than just aches and runny noses? For example, imagine if the mucus build-up wasn’t actually mucus, but another fluid. And it wasn’t in the sinus, but in the groin area. And instead of having to blow your nose a gazillion times, you had to relieve yourself using the nearest practical orifice. Meaning that throughout your working day, you’d be obliged to head off to the toilets every five minutes to knock out a more pleasurable excess, as a matter of valid medical necessity. This’d be great news if your employer is prudish, or better still a guilt-ridden Catholic. They’d be so naturally repulsed by your condition that the first slightest hint of the groinal snivels (or whatever they were), and you’d be sent home for the day! Even more fun when your boss caught a cold himself. Imagine the torturous dilemma and self-loathing on his face every time he was hit by the necessity of vulnerable fluid expulsion. But no. Instead we are left with tedious nose blowing. And this becomes painful after a while. I tell you, I’ve had to wipe my nose so much over the last couple of days that I have developed flaky skin, little cuts and sores between my nostril and top lip. As well as being darn painful it is particularly unattractive. In fact earlier today, I did an impression of Blakey from “On the Busses” with a little too much gusto, and having stretched my mouth a bit too far, one of my grazes unexpectedly popped open and started leaking blood. I must be the first person in the world who has suffered a split lip whilst doing an impression of Blakey from “On The Busses”. Whoever heard of a “Blakey-related-injury” before? Exactly. Colds are rubbish.

Happy New Year?

2010-01-03T22:10:00.000Z

If you’re anything like me, you make absolutely no plans whatsoever for New Year’s Eve thinking that it’s too far ahead in the future to be worrying about. You wonder why everyone else is in such a flap; it’s only 29th December for God’s sake! And from there you glide on, under a quietly confident delusion that something will turn up. Inevitably things DO turn up, but in a pique of miserliness you end up declining them all, because they involve buying extortionately priced advance entry tickets, meals in the same price range as filling your own bath to the brim with caviar and Taxi journeys with fares that at any other time of the year would be enough to finance a journey to and from Adis Abababa. Or at least they would be, only the last available cab was booked way back in the summer of 2004, and now the only option is to make a three-way investment purchase with Gary and Wayne on the nearest available property located 8 miles away from the proposed gathering, which you’d have to traipse back to at 3 in the morning, whilst carrying both Wayne and Gary on your back because they’ve over-indulged on vol-au-vents filled with vodka and have lost the use of their own legs. And such offers always come in a cruel game-show style format. Upon invitation your friends suddenly take the form of “The Banker” off Deal or No Deal and you’ll have to make a decision on the spot there and then, otherwise the tickets will sell out and your chance will have passed. But you let it pass and keep twisting, hoping that another friend will invite you to something affordable, but then you realise you’re 31 and that the remainder of your contemporaries now have families of their own now and they will be watching Jools Holland and sipping Baileys in the glow of loving domestic warmth, not caring in the slightest whether they leave you to watch Jools Holland alone in the warmth of a paltry rattling fan-heater, which operates so noisily it blocks out the warbling sound of Paloma Faith performing her latest chart-smasher (possibly being the only virtue of your desolate and sorry night).

So are you anything like me, then? Of course you’re not. I know this to be true as this year I found my level, and you weren’t there with me. I very much doubt the people I happened to spend this New Year’s Eve with are the type of people who’d read this blog. In fact I very much doubt they’d even know what a “blog” was. And should they be forced to hazard a guess, they’d probably assume it to be a particularly messy and unpleasant bowel disorder. I was in my local you see, with about thirty or forty other people. Needless to say I was the youngest there, probably by about 30 years. Not that I’m getting all ageist about it. Despite the generational ravine, fundamentally we all shared something in common; we’d all apparently kind of “given up” on celebrating the passing of another year. Possibly this was for different reasons, but I suspect that with wearying age, the perpetual novelty of forced seasonal bonhomie had worn thin. Why be financially extravagant when you can suffer yet another crushing annual anticlimax more cheaply in the local boozer? My attendance implied I must be ahead of my years, leaving me to conclude that spiritually, I must either be very wise or very broken.

I am not criticizing the clientele and I’m not criticizing the pub either. The effort the landlord had gone to easily out-weighed that of his custom, having provided 2 party poppers on each table and putting on a karaoke (which may sound modest, but remember there had been no admission fee, so he had literally provided this out of his own pocket). But the whole evening had a strange ambience, akin to that of an autumnal off-season club-house on a caravan holiday park. Rather than seasonal party hits, even the karaoke choices were weirdly weary. Not out and out depressing as such. It was more the sort of music that amalgamated a sense of crushed melancholy with a kind of ‘lighters-aloft’ hope. You know - the type of stuff that would not seem out of place if Comic Relief used it to soundtrack heart-rendering footage of starving Ethiopian children.

I didn’t quite last until the New Year, opting to leave the pub at around 11.45. The last thing I recall was gazing at some decorations draped from the ceiling, pondering whether or not there would be enough hold in a line of tinsel with which to hang myself with, if I so choose. Or maybe it was seeing some old chap standing up to deliver a rendition of “He Ain’t Heavy He’s My Brother”, and having to stop myself pulling out my bank card and making a charitable pledge. Either way, I was home just in time to see the London New Year fireworks display from my television screen. I remember thinking, this time last year I was watching those firework displays from London itself. Admittedly it was on the telly in a mate’s flat because we couldn’t face the nightmare of the tube. But still, it was much closer to the pulse of philanthropy than I am now. Back then I had the prospect of a new job, a new life. And one year on, it would appear the only development seems to be the recede of my hairline. It is rather alarming to realise you have done little but drift through another year-long funk.

But thankfully New Year is a time of reflection. Another chance to consider ambitions and to review life in terms of the positive changes one can make. Of course, there’s every chance we’ll just spend another year repeating the same old behaviours, mistakes and all, like some lab rat pushing levers without will. But I guess the important thing about New Year is that it seems an appropriate time to allow ourselves the indulgence of contemplation. And you don’t need a plush night out to be able to do that.

It Tastes A Bit Like Chicken

2009-12-13T21:16:00.003Z

For many people, the “festive feeling” seems to happen all of a sudden. Perhaps when the television start spewing festive infused adverts and idents, or when the Christmas lights get turned on in their local town or village. For me the Christmas feeling is like the onset of a disease. You might feel a few symptoms here and there, but the full debilitating effects of illness are a gradual process. The only time I can fully relax into the Christmas spirit is when I have achieved all my shopping for presents. Which is usually around December 29th.

I did actually go to see the Christmas lights get turned on in our village for the first ever time this year. Being a small village, it was understandably a quite humble affair. At one point I even heard the rather sinister sounding announcement that Santa was - I quote - “round the back of the barbers giving presents for a pound”. So it was a humility which walked a fine line between the festive and the squalid. But personally speaking, there just didn’t seem festive about freezing my arse off, staring at light bulbs on a cold November night. I'll just remember having to purchase a cup of chicken soup from one of the makeshift stalls, just so I could hold it and try to warm some feeling back into my hands. Don’t get me wrong, I did drink it. But the cup of soup served much better as a hand warmer than a meaty beverage. For starters, the broth seemed devoid of any meat. Obviously there was a kind of chicken vibe to it and I’ve little doubt a chicken had been involved somewhere along the line (perhaps in some sort of homeopathic sense), but there seemed to be no actual substantial lumps of meat to chew. There were lumps to chew, but they were technically large clumps of congealed stock powder, all with a sticky, salty phlegm-like texture. The only way to face swallowing them was to try and delude yourself they were small dumplings. But in your heart you were always conscious of the truth, and couldn’t help but feel a bit nauseated whenever one of the globules slipped down your throat. And it wasn’t even that pleasant Christmas sickness you get from the gluttonous indulgence Jesus likes you to have.

The thickness of this particular broth also caused a bit of a problem. After keeping my hands warm a while, the cup was still rather hot, so the first sip I braved was taken with a degree of caution. The temperature seemed quite agreeable. And having allowed this initial taster to build by confidence up, I took a bigger slurp. But the cold weather had only really cooled the surface, like it would when forming an icy layer on top of a pond. Consequently I was left with damp-glazen eyes, quivery face and puffy lips as I had to force burning lava down my gullet. I suppose I could have spat rather than obliged a torturous swallow. But it just felt inappropriate to expel translucent creamy liquid out of a spasming face whilst in the presence of so many young children. It wouldn’t be fair to traumatise them. They’d already had endure the sinister grotto round the back of the barbers to get whatever presents Santa had for them.

So this day of soup-angst did little to fill me with the festive spirit. And neither did the Xmas-ing up of television. I tried to watch a movie about the superhero Batman the other day. Christmas is largely the only time when I can indulge in such schlock without feeling pangs of guilt or the abhorrent self-loathings of a timewaster. But clearly my mindset is still too set in work-mode to enjoy Hollywood frivolity. I sat through the antics of the caped crusader witnessing futuristic transport systems being torn apart, buildings getting irreparable damaged, innocent by-standers suffering injury. And I did so with a sense of great civil servant’s distraction, tallying all the insurance claims that would inevitably hit the council of Gotham City. It may have been all been a bit of harmless rollercoaster action to you, but all I could see was an unfolding bureaucratic nightmare. And not just for the Gotham council either. What about that Batmobile tearing around causing all them cars to crash and flip over on busy highways? Batman may well want to live a life of shadowy anonymity but is this really any excuse for him not to have the insurance policy like the rest of us? It just seems irresponsible; inconsiderate to the other road users really. Particularly for any victims who only have Third Party cover for their vehicles. What the hell happen to them? The premiums are going to be sky-high in the next financial year. It’s bad enough here in the Midlands, where thick people make a claim against the council after tripping over on a paving slab. So you wouldn’t catch me moving to Gotham City. Given the financial impact all that mayhem would have on public sector finances, I’d be out of job in a week. I very much doubt they’d have the budgets for me to book The Chippendales or Derek Acorah when they perpetually seem to have a city to rebuild. My best prospect might well be a career of hefty financial claims of my own, probably from soup-related injuries at Christmas gatherings.

Incidentally, I would not really sue over the soup burns I have endured. I maintain enough dignity to take responsibility for my own actions. When I slugged the aforementioned scorching broth, it may well have caused aural blistering, stripping the roof of my mouth. But as the burnt skin flaked away, dropping on to my tongue, it didn’t seem so bad. The way I saw it, at least there was something more authentically meaty to chew on beyond the bobbing tumours of powdery lumps; even if it was the flesh from my own mouth. I’m lead to believe human flesh tastes a bit like chicken anyway.

A Cracked Windscreen and a Dented Ego

2009-12-02T21:50:00.001Z

I finally got my cracked windscreen replaced today. This is the same crack which occurred way back in January, when I was driving to Liverpool for a third interview for a job I wasn’t even sure I even wanted. I remember mentioning my uncertainties about the job to friends and family, but I opted to follow their advice, as they maintained, “you might as well go to the interviews, it won’t cost you anything.” This, of course, turned out to be bollocks. Firstly, I had to pay petrol for three trips to Liverpool (£60). Then there was the City Centre parking (£12). I also had to prepare a presentation for the interview, but since my printer cartridge ran out I had to buy 2 new ones especially (another £40). And to put the icing on the cake, my windscreen got cracked by a stone as I cautiously trailed behind a lorry on the motorway. So with the £75 insurance excess I’ve just shelled out for my windscreen replacement, I’m still paying for that damn interview now! It currently tallies up to £186.00. Even if there had been no monetary payments involved it still cost three days holiday. I shall never listen to my friends and family again. They are clearly delusional fools.

It is shocking to think that I have literally been staring at a crack for almost a year (and not in a good way). I probably wouldn’t have realised this had I not recorded the original incident in my blog. These writings only serve to confirm my suspicions that I am procrastinating fool. I have had the crack so long now that I have now become accustomed to the sense of dread and fear whenever I am about to drive over a speed bump, because of that advert where some driver’s windscreen crack gets bigger after doing so. Incidentally this never actually happened to me on a single occasion, but I never failed to expect it to. That’s the power of adverts I suppose.

The Autoglass man was due to arrive between 9 and 1, meaning I had to sacrifice my weekend lie-in to ensure I was awake and ready in time for his arrival. I knew he would not be here for 9 and that I would be lolling about for a good couple of hours, but I do like to be considerate and prepared. Not that preparation EVER goes to plan. He arrived about half eleven and typically did so right at the very moment I had commenced opening my morning bowels. There was a moment of sheer chilling panic when the door-bell rang. I knew I had reached the point of no return and all I could do was sit helplessly on the porcelain. Luckily my Dad was on hand to answer the door. By my calculations this is the 52nd advantage of living with my Dad that I have counted so far.

I finished my ablutions and went outside to meet him. By this time, Dad had already made him a cup of tea, meaning there was very little material left for me to greet him with. I stood awkwardly on the pavement for a bit, struggling to think of small talk to engage him whilst wishing I was somewhere else. Beyond the sanctity of tea-making (which had already been covered) I never really know what the social protocol is when somebody comes to your house to do a job. Is it polite to try and chat, or is that irritating and distracting? Is it best to simply make tea and then leave them to do their job, or is this seen as stand-offish and rude? Eventually he asked me, “Is this your first car son?” From a comment like this, it is natural to have assumed he thought I must have been rather young. Maybe shaving my goatee and losing my paedo-chic had given a fresh, youthful appearance. But in my heart I suspect he drew this conclusion because I was a man who appeared to still be living with his Dad; and that since I drive a Nissan Micra, it was clear I have not progressed as far on the automobile aspirations ladder than a man of my age probably should have. So in other words, if I appeared young, it was mainly for the wrong and slightly depressing reasons, all borne of my own stunted social development.
I went back inside and left him to work on his own.

Half an hour later, the windscreen had been fully replaced. The evil Autoglass man summoned me to give me advice. In order to allow the adhesive on my new glass a chance to stick, I should not drive my car for the next hour. I must not go through a car wash within the next 24 hours. And for the next day or so I should not exceed 50 m.p.h. He gave me a wink when he told me the last one, adding “not driving 100 m.p.h. like you usually would”. Clearly he had concluded my mistaken youthfulness would inevitably mean I was some sort of Nissan Micra-driving boy racer. Since it is unlikely he will ever glimpse my birth certificate or experiences being my passenger, he will never appreciate how hilariously off the mark his assumptions were. My only hope is that one day I will glimpse his horrible, patronising face in my rear-view mirror, seething with frustration as he crawls on along the road behind me, waiting for an opportune moment to overtake.

Unlucky for Some

2009-11-20T22:59:00.000Z

As you may have gathered from previous entries I am not really the type of person who believes in superstitions, fate, ghosties, ghoulies, Deities or any such nonsense. As far as I’m concerned the universe is a random set of events and we are all spinning round in a fortunately habitable environment until we eventually reach our inevitable eternal demise. Honestly, I’m a right laugh at parties I tell you.

So it was a great surprise to me when my mate Al called the other day.”Hello Al, how are things?” I asked. “Well... “, he said (ensuring that the vocal pause of three dots had been fulfilled), “To be honest, remember last week when we were coming back from Nottingham, and you had the car radio on at volume 13?”
“Yes?” I said (partially true - I remembered the trip but not such specific level of detail).
“Well...” he continued (again punctuated with the aural equivalent of three dots), “I should have said something at the time, but... well, you know.”
I couldn’t for the life of me anticipate what he was about to say. If you are anything like me, you’d expect him to accuse me of somehow impairing his hearing. But volume 13 on my car radio is not, as you might have assumed, two levels higher that the 11th setting like the amps on Spinal Tap or something. My car radio volume levels go up to about 30, so you’ll appreciate that setting 13 is not even remotely ‘rude boy’; it is less than half way on a moderately priced stereo and speaker system.
“What’s wrong?” I pressed.

“Well, it’s just that ever since then, everything has been going wrong.”

There followed a brief silence. It took me a while to work out what his actual point was. But when I did, it of course seemed most absurd to be blaming my stereo setting for a week’s worth of his own miserable misfortune. It is funny to think that during the drive I was completely oblivious whilst he sat there looking at volume 13, considering to whether to mention his disquiet over the setting, and then thinking back to it, silently fuming whenever misfortune befell him over the next week. How was I to respond to these allegations? Did I laugh derisively? Did I contradict his superstitions through a lecture based on reason and rational thought about the random nature of the universe? Did I give a pitying sneer to suggest he should, at 32 years old, probably start taking responsibility for his own actions? No – I did none of these- I simply apologised. That’s right, I actually sodding APOLOGISED!! And the weirdest thing of all was that I felt twinges of guilt and responsibility too!! Ridiculous behaviour. I tell you, militant rationalists like Richard Dawkins must be shitting themselves with me around. And for weeks I just couldn’t figure out why this was my initial reaction, but then today it struck me. The reason was empathy, pure and simple. For even I, “Mr-tell-the-kids-there’s-no-Santa-and spoil-Christmas”, can from time to time, fall victim to this mild superstition-belied obsessive compulsive disorder.

I actually noticed my own behavioural quirk at the gym. On the treadmill there is a digital display with a calorie-counter on it. I must admit that whenever the counter passes 66.6 calories, I am often mildly relieved. For some reason I never fail to convince myself there is a small chance that 66.6 calories, I might suffer a heart attack. Or worse still, get somehow wrong-footed and end up falling off the end of the treadmill. I never want to go through a humiliation like that again. Of course, realistically speaking the danger should be much worse when I hit 666 calories, rather than 66.6. But then if I get to a point where I have clocked up 666 calories on the treadmill, a heart-attack is realistically more a scientific and physical danger rather than a superstitious one.

So there you have it. My mind is both stupidly delusional and pathetically irrational. I give it four months before I’m caught with my dick in the caviar jar, trying to create myself an upper-class mermaid.

Revelling In The Sheer Insignificance Of My Actions

2009-11-18T20:52:00.003Z

I have been a bit stressed of late. Mainly due to work worries to be honest. In case you have not guessed from my previous entries, I do worrying particularly well. I’ve started this week feeling to get a bit more levelled though. I think my pattern of behaviour is basically to worry myself into near-illness, then to suddenly take the camera lens of my life, and metaphorically zoom out to see my concerns in light of a much grander context. Soon enough, on a contemporary global scale, the things I worry about at any given moment seem to have about as much significance as a single grain of sand on a whole beach. And realising the sheer insignificance of my actions always becomes a great comfort to me. I appreciate that celebrating one’s sense of personal futility seems a rather odd way of looking at things. But this should not come as any surprise. I remember writing in an earlier blog about how most people find comfort through believing that their deceased friends and relatives watch over them; whereas I find the finality of existence much more agreeable (citing the example about how it would be of absolutely of no comfort to me to imagine my dead relatives watching over my indulgences of lustful onanism). Clearly, I must be wired differently to the common man. I guess this must mean I am probably a genius. Not that I'd want such a burden you understand; obviously if I were a genius I couldn't stand the responsibility of my own significance. But I can’t see any other reason why I’d hold such contrary views to the general consensus. Unless I was just your run-of-the mill psychopath. But I feel too calm to be one of them.

Talking of which, my current sense of tranquillity will be of great relief to my colleague Simon with whom I share an office, for he has had to bear witness my unpleasant moods for the last couple of weeks or so. Things came to a head last Thursday when – with him generally fed up with my wearying curmudgeonly face - we ended up having a bit of a row. It is quite uncommon for me to row. But I suppose a row now and again when one is under stress is inevitable. After all, I am cocooned for eight hours a day, five days a week with just Simon for company. I am under duress to spend more conscious time with him than I do with anyone other single person in my life. Which means effectively he is the closest thing I have to a wife. Ignoring how fundamentally depressing and warped as this sounds, it does mean make the odd row rather inevitable. But it didn’t stop me feeling guilty. When I applied for my current job, amongst other things I wrote on my CV that my character was “non-aggressive”, “honest”, “patient” and “even-tempered”. I probably should have written that I was “generally laid back but had a tendency towards repressed passive-aggressive behaviour which manifests in an occasionally irate temperament”, but at the time it didn’t seem a very enduring thing to put in a job application. Although sadly, since I also wrote I was “honest” I inadvertently wrote in a clause which obliges me to demonstrate all the other virtues I listed. Failing to do so could technically be a breach of contract, for which I could lose my job over. I think that’s how CV’s work anyway. Otherwise what would stop people writing a load of self-aggrandising bollocks?

I suppose what I am basically saying is that if you have had to bear witness to my screwed-up miserable stress-face over the course of the last two weeks, then I can only apologise, But although I am sorry, lest we forget what big news we’ve all learned here today. For if you agree with the notion that I might actually be genius, then let’s be honest, it must be quite an honour for you humble folk to have witnessed the live torturous workings of a genius’ mind. But if you find such proclamations absurdly delusional, then by proxy, you must believe me a psychopath. In which case, it would be equally ill-advised to condemn my failings.

Cold Hearted Traditions

2009-11-11T22:20:00.003Z

My Dad press-ganged me into going to a fireworks display in Penkridge. He was quite insistent as he is a big kid at heart. I was quite reticent, as I am an old man at heart. But sadly I was not as reticent as he was insistent. Which means I am not as old as he is childish. So I win. I think.

It seemed a bit sad for a single 31 year old man to spend his Saturday night being taken to a fireworks display with his Dad. But he promised there was a bar so at least I’d be able to drink myself into alcohol induced fug, to temporarily mask the despair of my dismal existence. So with no other real plans with which to counter his proposed ideas, I found myself donning my coat to brave the freezing conditions of a particularly uncompromising November evening.

Turned out the display would be very popular indeed. There was a long traffic queue up the road, just to get into the car park. On the face of it, such disruption would appear as poor organisation, but I suspect it was actually very cleverly premeditated. A three-point-turn would be impossible even if I’d wanted. Meaning we were trapped in our car, waiting for the inevitable entrance fee collectors. It wasn’t long before a young lady approached with a bucket. I wound the window down.

“That’s £8 please” she said. I scrambled about in my pocket. “Could you pay mine for me, I’ve got no change?” asked my Dad. Well what could I say? He was my Dad, who had co-created me, kept me in food, clothes and shelter for the formative years of my life. It should be nothing short of an honour to make such a paltry repayment for man who had made so many sacrifices through the years on my behalf.

“Yes that’s £8 each then please. It’s for a Children’s charity” she said. As I dropped the money in her bucket, I gave her a kindly smile. But inside I was secretly fuming. Sixteen quid for a few blood-curdling bangs abound the night sky? I used to get them for free when I lived in Penn Fields. Our carriage had been drawn to a halt and now I was being robbed! Apparently it seemed the bloodline of Dick Turpin was alive and well, and living in Penkridge. I don’t care if this was for charity. If anything, that just made it seem manipulative. I don’t even like children for Christ’s sake! And don’t come with all that “Maybe so, but childhood is an integral formative step to becoming an adult” or all that “You were a child once, you know” bollocks. That holds no water with me. It’s precisely that little sod’s fault I’ve turned out the way I am. Consequently I have nothing but resentment for the young.

The fireworks could best have been described as brief. Thankfully since you couldn’t get within 200 feet of the bonfire itself, the cold weather soon deterred my Dad from wanting a lengthy stay. Presumably this slightly over zealous fencing arrangement was for reasons of public safety. Quite ironic considering the possible onset of hypothermia that would threaten my Dad. It appears that age catches up with us all eventually.

Thank God for that.

My Expenses Shame

2009-11-03T00:54:00.001Z

Today I had a long overdue hair trim. It was good riddance to the Roy Cropper look I have been sporting over the last month or so. I have also shaved away the goatee that has adorned my face, and having done so, I’m not sure why I ever grew it in the first place. In retrospect the most positive thing I can say about it, is that it was the closest my mouth has been to a vagina in quite some time. Ha ha - actually, that’s not a bad line. If only I’d thought of it three months ago there might have at least been some humorous point to carrying my ludicrous facial growth around.

The problem is I am not a vain man. I fail to gauge any self-awareness about the way I look until I am smacked in the face by my own ridiculous, erm, face. The latest occurrence of this happened last Thursday. A promoter from London had arrived to see a show she had booked with us. That’s right - of all the places of the tour she had chosen to visit Wolverhampton.

In order to somewhat compensate for such misfortune, it was agreed I would take her for a curry on council expenses. I know this is not a very popular thing to say in the current media climate. But it was, after all, a short-term expense with a greater long-term intent. A good impression is all for the good of the Wolverhampton entertainment scene. And let’s be honest, nepotistic bribery is the best we can possibly aspire to offer.

As we sat down for our meal, things genuinely seemed to be going well and we had a good chat. In fact, there were even compliments being bandied about. Obviously having no concept of how to process a compliment I could feel my cheeks flushing a little. Or at least that’s what I thought was happening. But one thing I had neglected to anticipate was the fact that currys are generally quite spicy, and I had inadvertently seemed to have picked one of the hottest on the menu. There were whole chillis in it for God’s sake! Not that I realised they were whole chillis. This only became apparent to me after I’d eaten some, and my initial flush had developed into a spontaneous and un-quenchable sweat-fest. I felt sparkles appear across my face and in a concerted effort of damage limitation, I hurried to the toilets and try and dry the moisture off my head with toilet roll. But now my shaggy unkempt hair was now completely flattened to my head. As I returned to the table the self-consciousness of my evident perspiration made me sweat even more. As I felt the little runny liquid trails sliding down the back of my neck, I knew I had already used the get-out toilet guise once, so to announce I was instantly returning would have looked weird. All I could do was sit back down and admit defeat, as my hair started to resemble some sort of bizarre skull cap; albeit a skull cap where the material is starting to look quite worn and thin around the forehead area. I started making weak excuses about being too full, for I could not possibly risk devouring any more torturous spices.

On the way out I happened to catch my reflection in the mirror. As my hair hung limply and greasily down the side of head, I couldn’t help thinking that I looked rather like a man who you would probably wish to avert children away from in the street. Believe me, this is not the ideal situation to become aware of your need for a haircut. I had been wishing to make an impression that night, but I am not sure the sweating and slightly sinister man was quite impression I had intended. I am just grateful that there were no expenses-claim-hyped journalists or photographers out that evening. This would not have been an endearing look to accompany a “Council worker in curry shame” headline.

In future, just to be on the safe side, I should take any promoters or agents for something less spicy. And I will have an appropriate haircut with which to eat it. Can’t think of many other types of restaurants in Wolverhampton though. Might have to be Subway sandwich or something. It goes without saying, I will hold the jalapenos. In fact to be on the safe side, I’ll probably just have lettuce and nothing else. It may not be glamorous, but at least it is safe.

Mole's Gone To Sliceland

2009-10-19T22:37:00.001+01:00

Not a very productive day today. In fact the only thing I have really achieved is a good old bleed. This is a consequence of my particularly poor shaving skills this morning, when I managed to cut the head off one of my neck moles. I blame this mishap on tiredness, having had to work a clubnight shift last night till the early hours of the morning. It followed a show by the 70’s pop entertainers The Nolans, most famous for their single “I’m in the Mood For Dancing” (rather ironic, given that it had been a fully seated concert. Our Health and safety regulations would not allow for dancing, irrespective of the audience’s mood).

Sadly The Nolans had a lot of equipment and the stage crew had their hands full, so in order to get the venue cleared ready for our clubnight, our staff had to chip in and carry all the catering stuff out of the venue for them. The burly security looked after the big flight cases full of catering equipment, whilst I took care of the baskets of ingredients and stock (interestingly, I couldn’t help noticing that none of the produce had actually been bought from Iceland – another illusion shattered!). It probably sounds as if I had the easy job, but if you’ve seen the size of The Nolans nowadays, you’ll appreciate just how much stock there was to contend with. It took stamina, believe you me.

This might sound like an easy tabloid-esque pot shot, putting unnecessary emphasis on physical attraction of women and their increased weight but don’t be offended, it is a shallow victory. Who, after all, is the real joke? Four women who got paid handsomely to entertain a sold out room, or a man in his early thirties who humps trays of food down the stairs, whilst continuing to nest an unused prophylactic in his wallet that he has failed to find a willing recipient for by its not-immodest expiration date?

Incidentally, I have just peeled my plaster off again and I am still bleeding even now. Will it ever heal? Honestly, if it carries on at this rate, I might as well think about starting my own range of man-made black pudding. Annoyingly, had this injury occurring yesterday, I could have made some sort of personalised black pudding offering to the ever-hungry Nolans who would probably appreciate it.

The Difficulty of Just Saying No

2009-10-07T22:52:00.001+01:00

As much as I like my computer, I can’t help but feel it is annoyingly melodramatic from time to time. Just a second ago, it flashed up a warning “AT RISK – You need to back up to protect your file from loss and disaster”. As much as I am flattered by its high regard for the survival of another of my largely frivolous blog entries, I think to call its potential loss a disaster might be to overstate its worth. I certainly don’t think that if a plane were to come hurtling from the skies this evening, the passengers would be thinking – “well we might be dropping rapidly to a horrific and untimely death, but so long as the next Days of Enlightenment blog gets fully composed then at my tragic loss of life will be somehow compensated”. Such a scenario would be nice, but not very likely.

Never mind this entry, I think to go as far as to label the loss of ANY of my computer files a “disaster” might be a bit of a disservice. In fact between me and you, far from being a disaster, the loss of a lot of the files on my hard drive would probably be doing me a favour in the long run. But we all have melodramatic behaviour from time to time. Just last week, I got asked if I could cover an overtime shift at work. Now I like to be helpful and will often go to great pains to be co-operative. But I really didn’t want to do this particular shift as it would have meant working three consecutive weekends. Even so, the thought of having to say “no” really disgruntled me. I’m not kidding, it genuinely stressed me to backed into a corner to face my own unhelpfulness. So the way I reacted was to answer “no” in a rather stern, even aggressive manner. It was as if by asking me the question in the first place, they only had themselves to blame for this hostile response. And this was just over refusing an extra shift! Thank God I didn’t select a career path in the Emergency services...

ME: Hello, is this Mrs. Smith?

MRS. SMITH: Yes. How can I help?

ME: May I come in? I have some bad news about your husband.

MRS. SMITH: Oh my. What is it?

ME: I’m afraid there was a plane crash earlier on.

MRS, SMITH: Oh my God! When did this happen?

ME: About 24 sentences ago.

MRS. SMITH: The plane my husband caught?

ME: Er yes... Yes I can definitely confirm it was the plane your husband was travelling on.

MRS. SMITH: But he survived though didn’t he? There was a parachute, right?

ME: Well...

MRS. SMITH: Please... He’s alive isn’t he?

ME: Madam, if you don’t mind, you’re making this very difficult for me to say...

MRS. SMITH: Just tell me! Is my husband alive or isn’t he?

ME: OK OK, IF YOU MUST KNOW, THEN NO. NO HE DIDN’T SURVIVE. HE’S DEAD. COMPLETELY LIFELESS. KAPUT. TORN APART INTO A BLOODY MESS BY VIOLENT IMPACT AND CHARRED BY RAGING INFERNO. ARE YOU HAPPY NOW? ARE YOU??!!

See – saying no in a context so serious just wouldn’t work for me. Although in my defence, wouldn’t it have been fairly evident that her husband was dead by the time I’d said there had been bad news and specified there had been a plane crash? Surely anyone would have worked that out? Yet she still felt the need to badger me. She’s clearly an idiot. And to be honest I am glad she is freshly widowed.

Other jobs I am probably best off avoiding include being the dog from the Churchill commercial. I’d have a hell of a time delivering HIS lines. As the number of adverts progressed, I imagine I’d become more and more rabid. It is difficult enough to trust a dog to sell you insurance at the best of times. But a dog with a muzzle? No chance. And I should also probably avoid being the singer of duo 2Unlimited as well. Or Dawn Penn. Now I know what you’re thinking. This last one seems like a bit of an anticlimax, but let me assure you these 90’s pop references are actually very clever and funny. And I’d love to explain why, I really would. But sadly, I’m afraid my computer is about to cr@$#...............

Sat 26th Sept 2009

2009-09-30T22:30:00.002+01:00

Since returning from holiday near the sea, I have really wanted to try cooking mussels. Today I decided to indulge this mild fascination with crustaceans, and headed over to Morrisons (favourite supermarket of the pop group Take That, though I have never once seen any one of the members in there). The man at the fish counter told me how to prepare the mussels, giving me an unnerving crash-course on the extensive necessary shell testing you have to to avoid poisoning yourself. The amount of effort it took to prepare them was a revelation in itself. I had also been surprised how relatively cheap a big bag of mussels were as I’d always thought they were a bit of a delicacy. Although after my chat with the fishmonger, I would soon realise the real expense is more to do with the number of supplementary things you need to make a decent sauce. This expense would also be compounded when I got to the check-out queue. As I pulled out my wallet, I ended up dropping a coin. Typically, it hit my foot and rolled off, losing itself the jungle of other people’s queuing legs. And typically out of all the coins it could have possibly been, I had lost a pound – the second most valuable of the sterling coin family.

I had a few little glances, but to no avail. To have a more thorough exploration would have meant compromising my place in the queue, and rummaging around people’s feet, which seemed like an indignity not necessarily carrying much promise of success. Begrudgingly, I wrote the money off, paid for my goods and traipsed toward the exit. And as before I’d even left the building, the realisation hit me that I had forgotten to buy any fish stock, so I would have to take my carrier bag back to the car and start again. I don’t know why I always feel obliged to get rid of the goods I have already purchased before I can re-enter a shop. I just have a strange paranoia that I would be a suspected shoplifter if I didn’t, which would be of social embarrassment to me in a public retail space. Silly really, when you remember the purpose of being issued a receipt is solely for proof of purchase.

So I returned to the store and grabbed a box of fish stock, heading back to the checkout. I did not wish to join the same queue as before in case the checkout girl recognised me as the forgetful dimwit I was, so I joined the next one along behind a man waiting to pay for a pre-packaged sandwich. This turned out to be a shrewd move on two counts – firstly I had joined behind a man who was waiting to pay for a single pre-packaged sandwich so the queue instantly became shorter than it looked. But even more impressively, I could see my pound coin on the floor just a few meters ahead. As I slowly shuffled up the queue alongside the fish stock on the conveyer belt, I waited in anticipation to retrieve my gold nugget, praying that none of the other shoppers in front of me would spot it before I could get to it. Luckily, no-one did and when I reached the coin I surreptitiously pounced on it like a tiger. Although it wasn’t quite as discreet as I’d hoped - as I bent down, I made one of those involuntary groaning noises that sometimes occur when you get to a certain age and start stretching, standing or bending. This new development of vocal accompaniment to minor exertions was both a surprise and worry for me. If I am groaning like this at the mere age 31, lord knows what noises I’ll be making at 61. At this rate, it’ll sound like I’m doing a weird one man re-enactment of the fabled scene from “When Harry Met Sally”.

To add to my embarrassment, the checkout girl rung my fish stock through and gave me a disconcerting look, whilst asking “Is that everything?” The enquiry may appear rather innocent when read from a page, but had she given the same line of questioning to the single-item buying gentleman and his pre-packaged sandwich? Oh no – of course not. Buying a single item is fine if it is a pre-packed sandwich. But apparently there is something deeply odd about a man who just wants a box of fish stock. What on Earth was she thinking? Did she believe I was friends with the sandwich man, and we would step on to the car park together – him tucking in to the convenient bread-based snack he’s just purchased, and me standing alongside him, crumbling cubes of dehydrated fishy flavourings into my gob? What sort of sea-life obsessed weirdo did she think I was? Oh well. Who cares? At least I had retrieved my pound. This would sweeten the bitter pill of any unnatural-looking fish stock eccentricities that may have been levelled at me.

The mussels were ok, but if I am honest they failed to leave me sated. They had seemed like such a big bag when I bought them. But for starters, the fishmonger had scared the living hell out of me with his stern tutorial, and during my rigorous safety check on the shells I probably discarded many more mussels than I needed to, just through paranoid caution. And when I’d finally finished prevaricating and actually cooked the mussels, the little bits of Gieger-esque meat were actually a lot smaller than I’d anticipated. In fact they were so tiny compared to their vast shell cups, it rather reminded me of trying to find the clitoris. But enough of the sentimentality from bygone years. The point was that to appease my appetite I had to follow my main dish with sandwiches and a rather too healthy (or indeed unhealthy) portion of cheesecake. So when my friend contacted me to tell me he was going for a drink and a curry in the town I was keen to join, but certainly only the former seemed of any appeal. Which brings me to my next point. When someone invites you to catch a bus into town for a drink and a curry, surely it is safe to assume that the activities would occur in that order. Drink first, curry later. Surely that’s the English way isn’t it? Not my friends. They must be continental or something. I joined them in town just as they were heading to the curry house. I can’t emphasise enough – I wanted drink not food. Yet I didn’t feel comfortable going to a curry house just to order drink. Maybe my ideologies are all askew, but this is something that appears much weirder to me than standing in queue to buy fish-stock. And this is how I found myself standing all alone in a pub, self-consciously supping from my pint. Which I pretty much did until the last bus home. I wouldn’t have minded so much, but the barmaid I had been set up in an ill-conceived date with in this previous entry was working. And she kept walking past. What must I have looked like, standing in the middle of busy Saturday-night town-centre pub, drinking completely by myself? The best I can hope for is that I appeared so un-popular I am completely bereft of any friends who I can call and meet up with, even on a Saturday night. I’d seem weird, but at least I would pitiable. But what if she thinks I am only going there to watch her, like some discomforting lonely obsessive? This would no longer look pitiable. This would be a whole new level of weirdness.

Could have been worse I suppose. At least I didn’t drop any coins and start groaning when she walked past. Or have a powdery residue of fish stock smeared across my lips.

Mon 7th Sept 2009

2009-09-10T00:19:00.002+01:00

I’ve started going to see films again at the cinema. Tonight I went to see my third film in three consecutive weeks. It was called “Home” and was about a family living next to an abandoned highway, which gets re-opened, resulting in disintegration as their deepening isolation slowly leads to madness. Last week’s film was “Moon”, in which about a man who works all alone on the moon and starts thinking he’s going mental. The week before that we watched the psychological horror “Antichrist”, about a man and woman ravaged by grief, who head to a cabin in a forest alone together in an attempt to come to terms with the loss of their child, and eventually end up going insane and debauched. In case you haven’t noticed, I only like films which feature single-word titles, bitter isolation and slow, tortured mental decline. They are my favourite type. In fact I will only watch films which feature all these three elements.

Antichrist has been the subject of some particular controversy and on the way in, the cinema’s steward warned each if us about its explicitly offensive content, despite the fact that there were already numerous warning signs around the box office. This actually unnerved me a little, because I have never seen such diligence of caution. And sure enough, as soon as the lights went down, we were subjected to an onslaught of cruelty as the screen lit up with imagery that can only be described as gratuitously offensive. Apparently U2 are advertising Blackberry phones now and we had to sit through at least 30 seconds of yet another of their songs which was the Rock equivalent of aural fresh air. It was little more than obscene. Haven’t those fuckers got enough money? Why use U2 to ruin our cinematic experiences? What do they have which qualifies them to ruin cinematic experiences nationwide anyway? Why not use, say, long-lived African-American doo wop vocal group, The Drifters? They’ve been banging on about Saturday Night at The Movies for fifty years now. I’ve never seen such a loyal allegiance to the movie industry. In fact they must really love films, because they also wrote, “Kissing in the Back Row of the Movies” which I’d argue could be seen as a kind of homage to the concept of a sequel. Ok so lyrically it was pretty much the same concept as “Saturday Night At The Movies” which made it a bit rubbish. There’s only so many times you can listen to songs about taking a girl out to the movies and giving her a kiss and a cuddle on the back row. Sure it would have been nice to hear a little a progression. But in their defence, it was different time and their conclusion to the trilogy, “Fingering through the Trailers” probably wouldn’t have gone down very well in the 50’s. For this reason it’s probably for the best the demo remained unreleased.

Don’t get me wrong. I’m not saying that The Drifters would be perfect for cinema advertising. It’s just that they’ve already been frequenting the movies for 50 years, so surely they seem more deserving to have such long-standing custom rewarded in some way. But if they have been cruelly overlooked, I suppose they have no-one to blame but themselves. Given a closer inspection of their lyrics, they freely admit, “Who cares what picture we see?” And whilst they are clearly helping keep the fledging cinema industry alive they obviously have no respect for the film as an art-form. In any case, to me it seems a bit reckless to have no regard for “what picture we see”. It would, for example, be very unwise to take their “baby” to go and see Antichrist. I couldn’t imagine scenes of explicit sexual imagery and harrowing sadistic genital mutilation being a particularly comfortable or appropriate context for “hugging with your baby on the last row of the balcony.” Even assuming this "baby" is of the required age of 18, surely the bit involving a clitoris and a rusty pair of scissors would kill the mood stone dead on any first date. It’s little wonder they never get further than a kiss and a cuddle.

That’s the problem with them Drifters. No forward planning.

Sun 6th Sept 2009

2009-09-08T00:39:00.001+01:00

I’ve just been trying to write this entry and nearly broke my computer! I was lying in bed with my laptop on my lap when along came a spider, which didn’t quite so much as sit down beside me, as much as abseil from the ceiling towards my face. I didn’t notice him until he was about 30 centimetres away and such close perspective made him look like almost monstrous. The sudden shock meant that impulsively, I quite literally dived off the bed, flinging my laptop along the floor with terrific force. How my computer actually survived the impact I am unsure, but it’s a pretty good job. I don’t think arachnid attacks are covered in the insurance policy. I’d have broken my computer for no conceivable gain whatsoever. At least if you’d got to see my floundering idiocy it might have been a slightly humorous spectacle for you, but slap-stick doesn’t really work in print. It would have been a complete waste.

I am not usually the sort of person who is usually fearful of creepy crawlies (although I make up for this with a more than adequate share of other fears and foibles), but this is actually the second time in recent weeks I have been made to feel uneasy by the insect world. A couple of Sundays ago, I went for a walk over a place called the Edge, near Much Wenlock. It is nice to be amongst nature, and this particular walk was also the inspiration for A Shropshire Lad by A.E. Housman. I find the literary history of the place quite ironic considering the name Much Wenlock makes no grammatical sense whatsoever (surely Very Wenlock, or Quite Wenlock would have been more correct). On the way home we stopped off for a lamb shank at a pub called The Boycott Arms. If I had been in the mood to be around nature then this would be a most ideal stop-off. As soon as our food arrived, so many insects appeared the place practically turned into a frigging conservatory. Perhaps the squashed wasp on the menu we saw before ordering should have been a bit of a giveaway. By this I mean a literal squashed wasp. “Squashed Wasp” wasn’t the actual name of one of the dishes, obviously; although if it were, the raw ingredients would certainly have been in plentiful supply. Honestly, it was like a sodding Wasp Factory or something. So much so, I even felt inclined to check my genitals on the way out, in case I’d fallen foul to some bizarre gender swap*. There was also this really weird thing I’ve never seen before or since which looked like a beetle, only it had bright red legs, a pair of wings, and more disconcertingly, something at the tail end that looked suspiciously like a sting. But the most disconcerting thing of all was the way it had no fear of humans whatsoever; it kept pacing towards me until I felt it necessary to actually switch to the other side of the table. In retrospect I guess this seems a little unchivalrous of me, since it now made an unnoticed bee-line to my eating companion instead, who eventually got pounced upon by the creature and was forced to flick it off in a bit of a sudden panic. And although no real harm was done by this apocalyptic-esque attack of insects, it really did taint the whole eating experience. Consequently, I shall not be visiting The Boycott Arms again. At least there was one place we visited with a correct name.

Footnote

* With that literary allusion to The Wasp Factory I may have spoiled the ending of a popular novel for the sake of a reasonably weak joke, but to be fair if you haven’t read it by now, I doubt that you ever will.

Sat 5th Sept 2009

2009-09-08T00:37:00.002+01:00

Saturday nights can be a strange affair when you are a single thirty-one year old. Especially when your contemporaries are generally preoccupied doing adult stuff in couples. This might make me sound lonely but I always have the option to find younger friends to have a hedonistic time on the town with. But personally I never feel much inclined for big nights out in nightclubs and the lark. At my age, the financial and physical strains are simply too much to bear. It seems whichever way I turn, the Saturday night always promises so much, but delivers so little. So sometimes I end up spending the weekend feeling like an old bit of driftwood washed up on the shore of a wasteland, with no-where to go and no-one to be with.

I remember once at work, I obliged a hall viewing for an almost painfully pretty woman, the type so angelic that she almost makes one weep into your lonely pillow at night. Sadly (or happily) she was scheduled for an arranged marriage and wished to find a venue to hold the reception, hence the pretext of her visit. I always used to have an ideological discomfort with the concept of the arranged marriage. This wasn’t a specific cultural unease at the obligations of Hindu caste (it was also common practise in European aristocracy, whilst “shotgun” weddings are still commonplace in contemporary society), more that the fundamental principle of marital coercion seemed like an attack on liberty. As I’ve got older, I can't help but appreciate certain benefits to the arranged marriage. Especially on nights like tonight. In a few weeks time, some lucky bleeder will be spending every Saturday night with that angelic woman, and he won’t even have to go through all that kerfuffle woo-ing her with wit, charm and vast quantities of Blue WKD. They will just be together and he can take as lazy approach as he likes. And me, a criminally lazy woolly liberal, will most likely be sitting here alone, typing another slightly self-pitying blog entry before engaging in act of teary-eyed onanism.

So which of us seems the most liberated now?

Fri 4th Sept 2009

2009-09-05T14:32:00.002+01:00

As I drove to work today Radio 4 seemed completely bereft of anything interesting to listen to. In an unprecedented shock decision, I ended up listening to Chris Moyles; who has apparently revived the “Golden Hour” feature. This is a segment which was started in the 70’s and popularised by Noel Edmonds and Simon Bates. The concept behind The Golden Hour is that Chris and his award-winning team of half-wits and morons all select a record each from one particular year. Meanwhile, listeners see if they can correctly guess the year in question by texting or emailing, adding who they are and what they’re currently doing. So you might hear a guess from Lisa who is looking forward to the weekend, whilst ironing towels in Chalfont, that sort of thing. Like an aural version of Twitter, but with mundane strangers and no opt-out clause. Occasionally, one of them will simply contact Chris to merely to say something like “Choon!”, which I believe is a ‘yoof-speak’ appreciation for having heard a song which is good. Presumably the usual playlist on Radio 1 now so god-damn awful, that the playing of a tolerable record deserves some kind of congratulatory message.

You’d have thought the revival of The Golden Hour wouldn’t be particularly amenable to the technological advancements thirty years on. Over the 70’s and 80’s people might call or fax their guesses. Nowadays it’s all texts and email. Surely the same mobile internet technology used to submit answers would also make it easy to research the year in which songs were released. Yet astonishingly, the Chris Moyles demographic still manage to email the wrong answers. At the end of the feature, he invites his team to see if they can guess the year. Worryingly, even some of them actually guess incorrectly, despite having only just picked a song each from that year.

Is the feature so flawed, it collapses under the weight of its own paradoxes? Or is it a disturbing barometer of our nation’s increasing idiocy? I honestly don’t know. Nevertheless, as a simple concept “The Golden Hour” still kinda works for me. But then hearing records from a past time when one was full of hopes and dreams is probably ideal listening for someone who is so clearly approaching a midlife crisis.

Thu 3rd Sept 2009

2009-09-05T14:29:00.002+01:00

The landlady of our pub was selling raffle tickets this evening, but it was a raffle with a twist. The tickets were numbered one to 300 and you had to pick a ticket from a bag. You would then pay an amount of money which corresponded with the number on the ticket. For example, if you picked ticket no.147, you’d pay £1.47. If you picked ticket no.80, you’d pay 80p, and so on.

The prize was a 14 inch television. I did not want a 14” television, but I also did not want to look mean by abstaining from a charitable cause. So I offered to throw £1.50 into the jar just to forfeit my turn, which I thought was a fair amount, being exactly average. I pride myself being exactly average, and thought the whole ‘donation without any motives of personal gain’ thing made me look quite generous. But the landlady was having none of this, she would take it is a flat donation, but insisted that I should pull out a ticket anyway. If I wanted to forfeit my prize, I could simply donate it back to charity. Her logic was too tricky for me to argue against so I succumbed to her ugly, bedraggled charms, thrusting my hand into her sack of paper numbers.

I pulled out ticket 299.

Under normal circumstances, this would have been a spectacularly unlucky draw, being the second most expensive ticket in the whole bag. But I had made a standard flat donation of £1.50 donation in advance. I looked helplessly at the landlady, wondering what this would mean. “That’s ok”, she said as she scrawled the word “charity” on the back, “lots of people who didn’t have change had to round their contribution up, so there’s enough it cover the shortfall.”

So there you have it. In a tiny way, I briefly experienced what it must be like to have won a game of “Deal or No Deal” by playing safe and wisely accepting the banker’s offer at a timely occasion (albeit a game of “Deal or No Deal” where you have to pay money rather than accrue it). Whoever says fortune favours the brave? Technically, I had actually made a profit of £1.49! HA HA In your face, cancer charity!

Of course, some perfectionists could argue I would have made a higher profit had I drawn ticket 300. But I am quite please I only got ticket 299. I would not like to be the BEST at something. I fully intend to stay in the realms of anonymous mediocrity of any field. I’ve no desire to be a local celebrity. I wouldn’t enjoy the notoriety of having everyone pointing and whispering whenever I walk in the pub, being henceforth known as the man who pulled out most expensive ticket. I was on this occasion, by all accounts a winner.

Wed 2nd Sept 2009

2009-09-02T23:38:00.002+01:00

Today I found myself in the House of Frasier; the department store for all the unnecessary things that affluent people buy. Since I work in the town-centre I’d agreed to buy some Clarins hand-cream on behalf of a friend (apparently Boots hand-cream is not good enough). As I headed to the House of Frasier cream counter (if that’s what it’s called), the lady eyed me suspiciously and immediately asked if I needed any help. I was, after all, an unkempt bearded male, wearing the same Adidas tracksuit top that actually pre-dated the mid-nineties Oasis popularisation of the sportswear, with a pair of hole-ridden trousers from TJ Hughes and a band logo t-shirt adorned with a small circular stain from last night’s lasagne. There I was standing at a counter of hand cream, looking all Cigarettes and Alcohol in a world of Cigars and Actimel. Her question seemed a fair one.

In case you’re wondering, a tube of Clarins hand cream cost £16.50 for 100ml. Shocking really. Never mind the preservation youth, for that kind of money you’d expect to be able to cure stigmata or even resurrect the dead. Though I did notice it had extracts of Myrrh in the ingredients, so maybe the cream does have some divine and holy powers. But still - £16.50 – that seems an awful lot just for some cream. Personally I’d expect to be rubbing the ejaculation of Christ himself into my hands for that kind of money. In fact, even that wouldn’t be particularly great value when you consider the average ejaculation is only 10ml. That’s one tenth of an average tube. I would willingly come and personally masturbate into your hands for £1.65 a time. But then I am fairly desperate for money at the moment. I started my career as a booker in the entertainment industry ten years ago because I wanted to work with, and bring, hip and cool artists to the local area. And I don’t mean those acts reforming with session musicians for cynical money motivated reasons. I wanted the chance to be a part of something new, promoting acts that have something to say, and who can tear honesty and emotion from the pits of their soul and potentially use their art to reflect or even influence the world on some sociological or artistic level. But nowadays what with the credit-crunch and all, I can no longer afford to be picky. Today, I definitely reached a new low. I realised this the very moment I sent an email to confirm an appearance from The Chippendales.

What would my 20-old-self say if he could see what I had become, reduced to booking an oily, aged male strip troupe? It is the final humiliation of a frankly already chequered career. The only defensible thing I can say is that at least it’s all the original line-up of The Chippendales, so maybe it’s not quite as cynical as it could be. It’s nice they still get on.

Lord knows what they must look like nowadays. I just hope they’ve been plastering themselves with loads of that Clarins cream over the years. For everyone’s sake.

Tue 1st Sept 2009

2009-09-02T00:10:00.000+01:00

So the last bank holiday of the summer is over. Believe it or not, this time round I feel a strange sense of relief to get back to the mundane normality of work, especially after this particular weekend.

It all started on Saturday. I was woken with a slightly hung-over fug, by a text message which would change the intended course of my bank holiday weekend to an unprecedented degree. The message was from a colleague who said he was at Reading Festival and had a spare guest pass if I would like to use it. All I had to do was arrive and say I was his plus one and I’d have a free weekend of festival frollocks. I know this sounds ungrateful and a bit miserable, but it was actually the last thing I wanted to do given the fragile state of my head and my first reaction was to quickly scan my mind for a viable excuse to decline this kind offer. It was not the thought of being at the festival that I objected to, but more the effort which it entails – the packing, the long drive, the walking about with sacks of heavy gear, the waiting in queues etc. Going to a festival is one of those things that sounds nice in principle (and sometime I even genuinely look forward to it), but it all seemed quite a bit of effort for what was essentially half a festival, since it was now Saturday morning and the festival had started Friday and ended Sunday. I would also have to go alone, which made motivation seem even more difficult to muster. However, I somehow managed to talk myself into going (Sorry – there I go again. I know I sound terribly miserable making it seem like such a big effort). I had no pressing plans to attend to (I can lol around in my pants any weekend) and I’d never been to Reading Festival before. I didn’t want to waste my time on a tenuous whim, so I sent my colleague a text to ensure that I would actually get in ok. The reply came back –

“Your on my guestlist. Say my name at guestlist box office. Then your in. Upto chap. Its on a plate if you want vip”

Reasoning that surely it is better to seize the opportunity of life experiences, this message had seemed to swing it. Better to regret the things you’ve done rather than not done, and all that. I could overlook the grammatical errors, the missing apostrophes and repeated misuse of the word “your” instead of “you’re” in the message. And when I started bundling my camping gear together it all seemed a rather spontaneous and exciting. Maybe even a little dangerous, like being overcome by some sort of compulsive madness. I even dug out my old combat trousers, which I have not worn for at least 4 years. But I should not have bothered rushing. An accident on the motorway would ensure my journey would be sufficiently delayed enough to eat another couple of hours into my already-scant festival time.

I got into Reading some 4 hours later, following signs to the guest parking area. I felt a little bit nervous because I did not have a ticket or indeed any kind of physical confirmation that I’d be on any guest list, so I was anticipating that I would be prohibited to park because all the other cars had car stickers. I wound my window down and asked the parking attendant where “Guest List Box Office” was. She had no idea but the question seemed to clinch some sort of assurance that I was not some sort of blagger looking for free, irrelevant non-festival parking. This all seemed too easy. Although maybe there was a good reason for any lack of parking vigilance, as I discovered when I ambled off to find the box office. If you are familiar with the Reading festival, you will know that it also has a sister festival in Leeds. And to be honest, I think the walking distance from the car park to either of the sites may well have been equidistant. Honestly, I had to traipse for about a mile and a half before I even reached the festival gates. I was certainly not looking forward to having to cart all my tent and luggage over such a distance. It was also during this walk I had time to recall why I no longer wore my old trusty combat trousers. The fly on them had broke and was no longer able to lock, so the zip kept slipping down. I had to keep stopping every dozen yards or so to hoist myself back up, which did not aid my already lengthy journey time very much at all.

Eventually I arrived at the box office to obtain my guest-list entry wristband. After about 15 minutes queuing, I found myself at the window, announcing my colleague’s name as planned. I am not a big fan of the guest list procedure at the best of times. I like the free entry bit, but the actual act of announcing “I’m on the guest list” always makes me feel like a self-important ponce. But what I fear more is the chance that someone will have forgotten to put me on the list at all. Apparently this was a fear I would be learning to face today. The girl looked on her computer. Then she looked down a printed list on a clipboard. Then she looked in a cardboard concertina folder. All in punishing detail. Whilst everyone else in the queue stood looking, in anticipation of my fate. Eventually she returned to the window.

“Sorry, you don’t appear to be on the list.” She announced apologetically. “Who was supposed to have put you on?”

I wasn’t actually sure because my colleague had not told me who had put his name on. I admitted this to the woman, and to save any more inconvenience to the other people waiting, I announced I would return once I’d made a phone call. “Ok, yes. Find out a bit more information and come back” she agreed. I took a walk of shame back down the queue, wristband-less and looking like a failed chancer who was merely delaying other’s entrance to the festival. I texted my friend to find out who’s guestlist he was supposed to be on, then I joined the queue again, waiting for what would effectively be my second humiliation.

“Oh, so you’re someone ELSE’S plus one are you?” she asked this time (even though I had announced this on my last visit). “Yes” I said.
“Well I couldn’t let you in any way I’m afraid. Not without the person whose name it’s under. They need to be with you. Otherwise, how would I know you are really his plus one?”. Once again, I would shrink back down the queue, avoiding eye contact, looking once more like a foiled imposter.

I phoned my colleague and explained the situation, telling him he would need to be at the box office to get me in. He agreed to meet me at the gates. But not yet. Dave Grohl was in the middle of a surprise set. I waited at the entrance next to the security man who had now witnessed me fail to obtain entry twice. We did not talk though. I guess we were both a bit embarrassed for me. And this was likely to be the only thing we’d have in common.

At last! Third time lucky. When my colleague arrived I finally got my wristband. Incidentally, they had not found his name on the list, but were willing to give the benefit of the doubt, conceding that they may have made an error because we had arrived separately and this had confused them (?). It was hardly a “VIP pass on a plate” as promised, but at least I could now finally get in. There was just the small matter of the one and a half mile walk back to my car to get my camping stuff and the one and a half mile traipse back to the festival carrying it.
“Incidentally,” I asked my colleague, “I’ve never been here before. Where exactly is the camping area?”
“I dunno.” He replied. “I’m not sure whether you can camp with that. I think you might need a camping wristband.”
“What?” I asked incredulously. “Well where are you camping?”
“Oh, I don’t bother with all that camping lark. I’ve got a hotel.”
And so came the next bombshell of this ill-fated trip. Apparently I was going to have to sleep in the car. A car that would be parked a mile and a half away. Either I was going to have to get completely legless in order to sleep in such an uncomfortable cradle, or I’d have to stay stone-cold sober and just drive home after the first day (of which there was already little left of). But either way, I would need to return to the carpark anyway. Since I had not been anticipating such a long walk when I’d set off, I’d left all my provisions in the boot. At the very least I would need my rucksack with my coat in it. I did not want to enter the festival arena just to have to head back at dusk when it started to get chilly. I’d rather get things sorted out now and get them out of the way. Off I trekked.

Fast forward thirty minutes and a mile and half later, I am back sitting in my car. I need a rest. It is now nearly half six. At this point I am seriously considering just starting the engine and writing the whole trip off as a bad idea. I even have the keys in the ignition. But something stops me. I think it is the sense of guilt I’d feel after dragging my colleague out of the festival to get me in, only to just disrespectfully sod off after he’s done me a favour by offering me his spare pass in the first place. The least I can do is spend a bit of time with him in the arena. Eventually I jump out my car, stuff my rucksack with the required provisions and resolve to head back off to the festival site. As I am getting out of the car, two men walking a pitbull approach me.
“You going to the festival? Do you wanna buy any weed?” one of them asks.
“No thanks, I’m paranoid enough”, I reply, and continue walking. One of them laughs. The other looks slightly pissed off.
I’m sure they do not mean me any harm, but they seem to want to walk on the same river-side path as me and it makes me feel a bit uncomfortable, so I seek an alternative route. I get briefly lost, adding another 20 minutes on the already epic journey.

I arrive at the festival gates. At last. It has only taken seven hours to get here. As I walk through the barriers, a man checks my wristband and points me through the entry. I walk round the corner expecting to be in the arena with bands playing and stuff, but actually find myself it a big field of tents. How did I manage to get in here? This can only mean one thing. I approach one of the stewards.
“Excuse me mate, am I allowed to camp in here?” I ask.
He checks my wristband. “Of course you can,” he replies, “you’re a guest. You can camp where you like!”
“It’s just... I thought I had to sleep in the car...”
He shakes his head, “No mate. Go get your stuff. Camp where you like.” he repeats.
By now I’m getting quite tired and emotional. I could hug him. I could also punch him because I’ve now yet another three mile walk ahead of me, and yet another hour of the festival lost. That’s not even counting the time it will take me to erect my tent. But at least I can now apparently sleep in a tent...

Carrying my luggage from the car back to the festival site was not easy. I had a rucksack, a big holdall bag, a sleeping bag and a tent. I should be able to sleep well tonight because by now I am totally knackered. After the first half a mile my arms feel like they are being physically garrotted by the luggage. My feet and legs are aching more than they usually do at the end of a festival weekend, yet I’ve not seen a single band yet. And worse still, the fly-hole on my combat trousers is down and I have no free hands to zip it back up again, so whenever anyone approaches me, I feel like a sex-pest who is surreptitiously, yet very deliberately trying to expose his underwear.

It is dusk by the time I arrive back at the site with my luggage. Setting a tent up in the dark is quite a challenge and seems to take a lot longer than usual. When I actually get into the festival arena The Prodigy are smacking their bitches up, or whatever it is they do. And they were the penultimate band. In fact my arrival is so late, that when I text my colleague to announce my arrival and try and meet up with him, he replies that he’s been on the ale since 11am and is intending to head back to his hotel very shortly. The whole thing has been farcical. I spend the rest of the evening wondering round the festival site on my own, learning to get my bearings. As the Arctic Monkeys take to the stage, a young girl approaches me and asks if she can have a gobble on the end of my frankfurter. Absolutely true. Sadly, this is not a euphemism. Otherwise, it might have provided a happy ending to an otherwise fairly shitty day. But as it turned out, I was basically giving a stranger a quid’s worth of my over-priced food.

I guzzled a few pints of over-priced lager and stumbled back to my tent, hoping to get a good night’s sleep ready for a full (and hopefully much more successful) day of festival tomorrow. Any initial worries I had about finding my temporary canvas home were ill-founded. I found my tent straight away, because it was the only one earmarked by a big sack of rubbish that had blown against the side of it. I fought through the litter, unzipped the door, dived in and lay down. My legs had a funny (but not entirely unpleasant) buzzy feeling.

I did not quite get the great night’s sleep I had been hoping for. Sadly there were a bunch of mates who intended to stay up chatting. One of them was particularly talkative, but annoyingly loud with it too. He just went on and on about drugs and girls for hours and hours. It was like having an acapella version of The Streets outside your tent all night. And as I the temperature dropped, I lay fully clothed in my sleeping bag, wide awake and shivering, promising myself that I will never ever do anything spontaneous again.

Sat 22nd Aug 2009

2009-08-25T23:32:00.001+01:00

I went to a surprise 60th birthday party for one of my ex girlfriend’s fathers. I have been toying with that first sentence for quite a while, because I find it a rather jarring phrase. I’m not quite sure why. Maybe it is the use of the word “girlfriend”, which feels simultaneously insipid, childish and patronising all at once, but is a word which I am bereft of any better alternatives for. Or maybe it is because it grammatically implies my ex-girlfriend actually has numerous fathers. Either way, it will have to stay as it is. You’ll just have to use both your own language preferences and common sense.

The birthday boy had been led under the premise that the family would be going for a quiet meal. But they would actually end up arriving at the darkened venue, where the assembled guests would suddenly yell “surprise” at the bewildered recipient (as is the usual protocol with surprise birthdays). The subterfuge worked like a dream. Personally, I’d have been disappointed were this party being held for me because I would have probably been looking forward to my dinner, and more pressingly, do prefer meals much more than large groups of other human beings congregated in a ‘party formation’. But he seemed genuinely appreciative of his family’s efforts in putting together such a fantastic do. I am glad of this. As far as girlfriend’s parents go, you couldn’t wish to meet warmer human beings. They are a big family with a big home, who welcomed me to co-habit with my girlfriend for a number of years. I have always felt respect for them and although I do not see them as much nowadays they are always willing to extend their warmth. A few Christmases ago, I was left alone after yet another of my relationships had collapsed. My own parents (the inevitable fallback position) were out of the country that year, so they insisted I came to their house to enjoy Christmas dinner with them. Which ironically I suppose is exactly the sort of human spirit one might witness in a Christmas film (albeit not the most riveting Christmas film - sadly I had not been considering suicide, or met with spirits from different places in a time continuum so the interest factor would have been limited). And talking of food - which I have just noticed seems to be a common theme running through these blogs (if you have never met me you may be surprised to learn that, believe it or not, I am not actually excessively overweight) –I tried, In my slightly inebriated state, to make my own contribution to this feast by offering to help lay the buffet out. My ex-girlfriend asked if I’d mind taking the wrappers of stuff. I dutifully went round taking foil and clingfilm from around the containers. And I must say, the buffet was a cut above. Maybe this was to compensate the father’s disappointment of a meal that had previously been promised then snatched away. But gone was the usual fodder of curled up cheese sandwiches, and in came piping hot pizza. The sausage rolls were replaced by samosas. And instead of mini quiches, there were these other things which I’d never seen before, but were a bit like mini-quiches that someone had taken the effort to peel all the outer pastry off and left the filling; a considerate act which made it somehow feel a bit more middle class. There were even a big range of cheeses to be enjoyed with a selection of biscuits. Although when I opened the biscuit assortment box, the top couple of layers seemed all mixed up and broken. This made me a bit paranoid that everyone would think I was responsible for their battered state. After all, I had been the last person spotted with them and it is not difficult to see how a slightly inebriated man wrestling with a box of biscuits might be incriminating, but this time it genuinely wasn’t anything to do with me.

When I left the party I felt very happy but I also felt a strange sense of melancholy. I’m not quite sure what had aroused this small fuzz of sadness. Maybe I felt nostalgia for the time I spent with living this generous family. Maybe it was the fact that ten years have passed since the parties’ guests and hosts had been a regular part of my life. Perhaps having seen how other people are getting on with their lives through all this time had given me fearful twinge that maybe good chunks of my own time has been spent inadequately. Maybe I was worried that everyone would go home and say how much they enjoyed the evening, and how it would have been perfect, were it not for the box of broken cheese biscuits that I had been co-incidentally spotted with. Maybe it bought back memories of myself from ten years ago (where like most people, I naturally presume I was a bit of a wazzock, and wish I could have behaved with the benefit of the experience I have acquired since). But let me assure you it was only a tiny fraction of my overall emotional state. First and foremost, I was happy and honoured to have been invited to these birthday celebrations. I’d had a good time, and this is a spectacularly rare occurrence as far as me and parties are concerned. And in any case, why should I feel even the slightest hint of melancholy about the past? The past, after all, is a foreign country; they do things differently there.

Do you know who said those wise words? It was Les Dennis.

Thanks for that Les.

Sun 16th Aug 2009

2009-08-18T20:54:00.002+01:00

I went for a meal at the Buckatree Hotel. It is quite a posh dining place. I can tell this because the food I ordered was a “Seafood-something-or-other”. I had to say, “I’ll have the seafood dish please and point in the general area of the menu where it was located, because I’d not heard the other word used in the dishes’ name before so I was paranoid about making an incorrect pronunciation that the waiter would go back into the kitchen and laugh with the other staff about. I consider myself to have a reasonable grasp of vocabulary so my ignorance seemed rather tragic. Not tragic for me, but for the restaurant itself, because as far as I can tell, a menu’s primary function is to describe the food an establishment sells, so this menu had failed its very purpose of being. The dish itself was a pot of seafood in some sort of white sauce, with two discs of pastry sitting on top. In other words, it was like a seafood pie.

So as you can see, it was all rather grandiose. The waiters did that thing where they pour a little bit of the drink in the glass for my convenience even though it was only a little bottle of Tonic Water. They draped one of those folded up tablecloths across my lap (presumably in case I become inconvenienced by a sudden erection when I saw the beautiful majesty of the food). You have to understand I am used to Sunday dinners where you have to order at the bar and go and collect your own condiments. I am used to napkins that are small squares of tissue, which if draped over your lap area, would actually draw rather than detract attention to any stirrings of the groin. Oh - and the other reason I knew this restaurant was posh was due to the weighty price of the food. Maybe that should have been the main clue.

I cannot deny, the scram was lovely. But it seems no matter how grandiose you might try to be, there are always people who want to act more grandiose than you. Take the husband and wife on the next table for instance. They were eating a traditional Sunday lunch, but they were unhappy. The roast potatoes were not to their liking. And the perceived failings of these roast potatoes was simply unacceptable, and they would call the waiter over to tell him as much.

“They’re just too soft. And potatoes shouldn’t be this sweet.” The husband snottily declared, “What sort of potato is this supposed to be anyway?”
The bewildered waiter had not expected this potato chagrin and scrambled back to the kitchen to humour the man’s carbohydrate query, returning to apologetically inform his critic, “All we know is that they’re from our supplier, ’Swallow’”
But the customer was not appeased by this in the slightest. In fact, it had enraged him into a declaration of starch warfare.
“I’d like to speak to the manager”, he demanded.

Now admittedly, I am a big fan of the roast potato, but I could not understand the level of hullaballoo. Maybe my standards are too low, but I kind of come to expect that maybe one part of an overall meal might not be prepared in a manner which suits my taste, and provided I am not poisoned or nauseated, or that loads of other stuff on my plate is also not to my satisfaction, I will generally just leave the offensive item to one side and move on. Probably to carrots or something, or maybe head straight to the meat if I really felt the need to compensate my potato disappointment. At most, I would expel any petty annoyances via a diary entry, and then just get on with my life. It is reasonable to assume I will consume plenty more roast potatoes in the future, unless my life comes to some sort of abrupt ending. But then, I imagine my last thoughts will probably be too occupied by the cause of my impending demise to lend too much concern to potatoes. Yet to his credit, the manager came down to indulge the snotty couple’s potato slating.

“This potato isn’t right” he went on again. “It’s too soft and sweet.” The manager said something quietly which I didn’t quite catch, but which had once again failed to appease the man.
“I know my potatoes!” he barked.
His wife suddenly chirped up in support of her husband: “Yes, he does know his potatoes. He’s potato mad!”
Those last three words were the most sensible thing that had been said so far. But this was sanity by luck not judgment. The wife would also prove herself unbalanced. She started wading in, trying to offer the potatoes to the manager, and even more bizarrely, when he declined, she started inviting him to their house so she could show him what a roast potato actually was. Then her husband raised the lunacy another level, by starting to question whether what they had been served was actually a potato at all! The debate was getting more and more surreal the further it went, and there was nothing the manager could do but sit their patiently and allow them to air their ridiculous proclamations. In the end, the wife requested a doggy bag, so they could take the ‘so-called potato’ home. Why they would want a momento from a meal which they hated is anyone’s guess.

Don’t get me wrong, I can understand why people might draw attention to their dissatisfaction when the waiter comes over and asks how the food is. Maybe a passing comment might even be constructive to the establishment in the long run. Personally, I’d tell the waiting staff it’s great, even if I’d previously whispered to everyone else on the table about how it tasted like gravel. But that’s just me. It is not necessarily the correct approach and maybe so much suppression is unnatural, and will eventually lead to my inevitable breakdown. But comparatively speaking, couldn’t taking a potato home in a paper bag to see whether it is actually a potato or evidence of some sort of bizarre ”potato matrix”, be seen as a bit of breakdown in itself?

Surely there’s got to be a happy medium.

Tue 4th Aug 2009

2009-08-04T22:24:00.003+01:00

I walk past this sign everyday on the way to work and it never fails to arouse a childish snigger. The snigger is an internal one, obviously. If you have found this page by accident and do not know who I am, let me assure you I am not someone who stands in the middle of a City publically chortling at signage. If you ever see a person with such a trait and assume it is me, don’t go over and introduce yourself because you will end up looking like an idiot. And bear in mind you will be standing next to a man who laughs at informative boards, so to look comparatively idiotic would be quite an achievement.

But should the sign does catch me unawares one time and I do end up openly tittering in the street, then I should probably explain that it is the name “Top Nosh” which I find so amusing. Of course, here in Wolverhampton, it simply means food. But it is a word which seems to have a vast regional variation in its definition. Particularly Up North, where it is understood as a euphemism for phallic oral sex. Fertile ground for a terrible faux pas learned the hard way whilst working in Liverpool, after asking my hungry work colleagues if they were ready for their ‘nosh’. I still recall the whole office falling deathly silent as its Scouse inhabitants contemplated how without any prior warning, the new ‘brummie’ lad had seemingly tried to ingratiate himself to his colleagues by offering to suck them off. As you might imagine, this is not the kind of mistake you make twice, but it is one you frequently find yourself consequently being reminded of. It tends to leave a sour after-taste.

So if you are from the Midlands and are planning a trip up north, please do heed my warning and spare yourself the same humiliation that I suffered. Similarly, if you are from up north looking for a salacious thrill in the Midlands, do not go into the shop expecting any gratification beyond a fried breakfast. Don’t start thinking that Wolverhampton is the new Amsterdam. I can appreciate how seeing the words “Baps” and “Hot Pork” might appear to be further encouragement. But let me assure you that although “Jacke Pots” may involve a generous filling and a high constitution of starch, it is certainly not the name of a willing recipient for your grubby little Northern phalluses. For that sort of thing you’ll need to go to Greggs.

Sat 1st Aug 2009

2009-08-03T23:54:00.002+01:00

Been feeling a sorry for myself of late. I do not like myself very much for this because I generally appreciate being me, which contrary to popular belief, seems rather lucky when one considers how remote the evolutionary chances of life are in the first place. Sure – I may be spending my time precariously peering into the ever-threatening ravine of my impending midlife crisis, but at least it is a human life (who ‘d fancy being a shit-eating fly?). And secondly to be born human in a part of the world which is neither war-torn, famine-stricken or comparatively too oppressive to one’s civil liberties, is luckier still. I suppose the odd bit of melancholy is a naturally human trait but even so, how could someone in my fortunate position possibly have the audacity to grumble without feeling guilty?

It’s a funny thing when you hit that level of depression. Well.. maybe funny is the wrong word, but you get what I mean. It’s weird how you can knowingly realise how irrational and wasteful your mood might be in a greater context, and yet precious little can lift it. I did try. I went to the gym in an attempt to get active and feel better about myself. But even this didn’t work. I felt just as miserable. Only now I had added fatigue to the misery too. And this did not leave me well equipped to attend the party I had been invited to in the evening. I couldn’t have felt more party-phobic if I tried. I could not even use my usual tactic of burying melancholy under a river of alcohol because I was driving. And prior to my arrival there were many things about the party which I did not relish the thought of. The main ones being...

1) Dancing. Being invited to dance was the last thing I wanted to happen to me. I mean, when have you ever seen anything as absurd as a depressed man with the sudden urge to burst into dance (Robbie Williams aside, obviously).

2) Other people having a bloody good time - which just makes you feel more incongruous in your environment, continually emphasising just how out of place you feel, like a kindly village Vicar stumbling in to a particularly racy Ann Summers party.

3) Getting your ears assaulted by ‘cheery’ party music so horribly idioglossic it almost makes you temporarily jealous of the shit-eating fly, because at least the shit-eating fly can simply sneak out the window unnoticed and escape this aural hell.

4) Being obliged into small talk, where the simple question “How are you?” becomes a moral scruple, as you deny your unfettered misery just to keep the cheery atmosphere flowing, whilst another little piece inside of your soul dies, ebbed away by the lies that your mouth is forced to tell to people you like and who don’t deserve to be lied to because they are nice enough to bother enquiring about your welfare in the first place.

In fact I could only think of one thing about the party that seemed remotely compatible with my gloomy mindset, and that was the inevitable big plate of sausage rolls on the buffet table. The little mashed pig-deaths wrapped in coats of pastry seemed poetically resonant to my dour mood and equally as attractive to my mouth and belly. But the short, mild thrill of sausage rolls seemed of inconsequential compensational value when compared to the hours ahead spent trying to force a demeanour of polite bonhomie through a heavy-hearted mood of self-loathing.

But of course, as is so often the case with these things, the party was absolutely fine. Sure, I spent the first obligatory hour hanging round looking a bit awkward, but this is pretty much par for the course and overall I am glad I made the effort to oblige the invitation I was honoured to have received. Everyone was really nice. And possibly as a result of my mental fragility, I even experienced strange new emotional responses to things. For instance, buying people drinks became a genuine pleasure rather than a polite gesture done with a hidden and repressed chagrin.

Mon 27th July 2009

2009-07-28T23:33:00.005+01:00

I was at a wedding in Lancashire yesterday, so I visited my Mother today instead. She had other visitors; a mother and her 7 year old son. I was introduced to the young boy, who just sat staring at me with a particularly disconcerting grin. In the absence of any conceivable response to his silently amused gaze, I rather uncomfortably proffered my hand to him in a formal but rather awkward looking manner of introduction. He responded by raising his own tiny palm, completely bypassing my handshake, shoving it toward my chin, before devilishly tugging at my beard hair. I laughed politely pretending to be amused, whilst inside feeling completely out of my depth, not really knowing what to do or how to respond. I was drowning in a sea bereft of appropriate polite social conventions. “How old are you?” his half-angelic-half-demonic little gob enquired. “31” I replied. He informed me that only people over 40 grow beards and this seemed to amuse him even further. Why does my beard seem to be suddenly getting so much slack lately? Like I said yesterday, I don’t object to a jibe or two, but it was almost like he was aware not only of his insult, but the fact he could manipulate an alibi of childish innocence to merit immunity from retribution. I would like to say that the next words I spoke cut the cheeky whippersnapper down to size in a manner as wittily akin to anything Oscar Wilde’s finest canon. But I can’t. Because all I did was continue to stand with a gormless grin of paralysis. In real terms, I was being psychologically hoisted by a 7 year old.

When I sat down, his mother managed to discourage him from jumping upon me long enough to have an interesting conversation and to even order a Chinese meal. I did not partake in this feast as I had only recently eaten. The boy soon devoured his meal and then opened his fortune cookie, which informed him he would be a flourishing businessman. I bet he will be too. I can just imagine his maverick and acerbically brutal negotiating techniques once they have been honed, like a nightmarish cross between Vinnie Jones and Malcolm Tucker. Personally I would have settled for such a successful and optimistic premonition without the slightest temptation to take any further gambles with the God of fortune. But the boy was not satisfied by this, and was soon snapping open everybody else’s cookie; which either made him appear a greedy selfish little sod, or a genius little satirist of the novelty biscuit premonition system.

In fairness, he had been pretty restrained for quite a while, and I could even go as far as to say quite fun. But it was when his mother left the room to nip to the toilet that all hell really broke loose. The young man suddenly launched a frenzied attack firing fists at me from all angles, laughing like a maniac. Once again, the paralysis of uselessness struck me, as I stood rooted to the spot. I hadn’t a clue how to counteract this unruliness. Giving the lad a good knee in the face would have probably been considered inappropriate. It didn’t even really seem like my place to shout at him. All I could do was stand uselessly swinging from left to right trying to shield my genitalia from his barrage of waist-level punches. My own mother stood beside this spectacle of demonic outburst, assessing its psychological implications. “He’s testing you to see what he can get away with”, she concluded. After sating herself with her academic hypotheses, and watching me receive a couple more swings, she eventually addressed the boy. “Stop that now,” she sternly ordered, “This behaviour is not acceptable.” And as if by magic the lad simply turned around and sat back down on the settee. Peace was restored as quickly as the chaos had erupted. But there is no getting away from one depressing fact: I had needed my Mother to protect me from getting beaten by a 7 year boy. This was a new low.

Sat 25th July 2009

2009-07-28T21:42:00.004+01:00

I walked into the pub tonight an acquaintence who I had not seen for some time. He came up to me and asked if I had joined the Taliban. I was a little fazed by this. What possible rumours could have circled the village during my holiday to have bought upon this surreal chain of events? To my knowledge, I have not crashed into the side of any buildings using any planes. I did once crash into the side of a bus in my Nissan Micra, but that was years ago when I lived in Liverpool, and seems a tenuous connection to say the least. There was certainly no malicious or disruptive motive to the crash, and even if there were I would have been a pretty sorry terrorist. At the point of impact I had barely got into first gear so was only travelling about 2 miles an hour. There wasn’t even as much as a dent on the bus. The only damage was a scratch on my wing and the bus driver only took my insurance details for what he called “precautionary administrational procedure”. According to the letter I received a few days later I learned, “precautionary administrational procedure” actually meant “free pay-out opportunity for a bogus whiplash claim”. A further 24 letters followed suit, from each of the passengers who had seemingly sustained a similar injury. It was quite a surprise that the same 2 mile per hour collision had not given me the slightest bruise or scratch yet had caused 24 cases of whiplash. Especially since there were only about a dozen people on the bus in the first place. Like I say, it was just too hapless to be considered anywhere in the league of a Taliban atrocity. Unless helping Scousers to pilfer free-loaded money constitutes as an act of national terrorism. But even if it were, it would not be for me to perpetuate crass implications about regional stereotypes. That is for other people to do.

Astonishingly, the reason for his questioning of such dramatic ideological shifts transpired to be even more tenuous: it was because I have recently grown a goatee beard. Bin Laden has a goatee beard. Ergo, I must be a member of the Taliban. Don’t get me wrong, I do not have a problem with having my beard derided (being boorishly heckled is all part of the charm when entering an English drinking establishment, and if my beard makes me look like a twat then fair enough - it is the closest my mouth has come to one of those in quite some time). But Bin Laden also had a walking stick. Yet did the old man who hobbled with a walking stick across the very same bar on the very same night get likened to the 21st Century’s biggest perpetrator of genocide? Oh no – HE didn’t. He was somehow immune.

It is the complete lack of consistency which got on my goatee.

Fri 24th July 2009

2009-07-24T23:54:00.004+01:00

I have just returned from my holidays, which started last week at Latitude. In case you are unfamiliar, it is an arts festival in Suffolk organised by Festival Republic, who also look after the Reading & Leeds festival. It is of smaller profile to those other events though, basically being the ideal festival for people who can’t be bothered with humongous crowds of people (many of which are in a lower social strata and can’t help but get loutishly drunk, steal blackberrys from tents and publically urinate up fencing), watching superstar performers, or having big corporate logos burned into their retinas every five minutes – but still enjoy the experience of standing in the rain being overcharged for rudimentary necessities such as food and liquid.

One of the less typical but gratefully received plus points of Latitude is that, for a small extra charge, we were able to take a fully equipped caravan; meaning that although some of the accustomed comforts of civilised society were still compromised, the festival could largely be lived with human dignity intact. I say largely, because there is still the thorny issue of defecation. Don’t get me wrong, our caravan had a functioning toilet, but as any seasoned caravanner will tell you, the caravan toilet is NOT to be used for solids. Not terrible news if you are in the “guest area” where you sit on a golden seat and a young virgin plays a harp and squeezes grapes into your mouth whilst you defecate, before cleaning off your arse with a towel of silk and bidet fountain of champagne-spray (for those of you who have never been in the guest area I can assure this to be absolutely what happens because I was once in said area myself. I remember those heady days well. My virgin was called Craig). But this was not the guest area. These were the disgusting festival ‘long drop’ toilets; those roofless, stable-door stalls positioned above a huge pit; that the disgusting general public used. In fact the nicest thing I can find to say about these particular loos, is that they’ve an aroma a bit like Saint Agur (a nice little reference there for connoisseurs of the supermarket cheese). But generally speaking, it doesn’t matter which festival you’re at, the sense of dread is exactly the same when one feels the inner-anvil ready to drop.

I headed to the toilet roll dispenser located in front of the cubicle blocks (these festival animals can’t be trusted to have their own roll inside each of the cubicles), plucked myself a dozen sheets, trudged up the platform steps, slid the bendy lock on the door of one of the metal cupboards and sat down to attend to my business. Well, not ‘sit down’ exactly - it may only have been rainwater that had drizzled the seat I peered at, but I wasn’t really willing to take any chances. So instead, I kind of hovered over the bowl with my knees half-bent holding my hand against the wall to assist with balance. And waited for emancipation.

The first tip anyone will give you about these types of shared ‘pit’ toilets is to never look down. It is unsavoury to think that so many people’s omissions collected in one shared ditch, but at least you can retain ignorance if you are sparing with your sense of sight. Unfortunately, you cannot retain such ignorance to the sensation of touch, specifically the touching of a warm liquid spraying across your buttock. Especially when it seems to be coming from the direction of a very audible urinating sound from the cubicle behind. In any other circumstance, I would consider this quite a feat. Surely it is a scientific impossibility for someone to urinate in a near horizontal direction? The only other explanation is that the person behind was weeing with such vigour, it was causing a splash-back effect from the swamp below. And perhaps understandably I’d rather believe it was the former. Philosophically-speaking, it is surely better to be pissed on by one man than be pissed on by a whole festival audience. And more pressingly, since I had refused to look down beforehand, if that level of splash-back could be achieved by single stream of liquid, what sort of monsoon could erupt as a consequence to the thud of my own solids? It was a treat gruesome enough to close my bowel for good. And at that moment, coincidentally my bowel did freeze up; leaving nothing but a kind of small cigar butt of faecal matter wedged between my buttocks.

I waited and waited, trying to muster the sufficient additional weight to cause a droppage but nothing came. At one point I attempted a little Chubby Checker Twisting dance to free the small trapped slug in my buttocks, but it just wouldn’t budge. I think I even tried a more abrupt pelvic thrusting action, but still I couldn’t manage shake it out. And after a while, my hand, which had been supporting the weight of my weird half-crouching position, was getting tired and beginning to buckle and give way.

The only remaining option was to abort the mission and commence with my wipe, trying to mop up the sandwiched messy carnage as best I could. But it wasn’t really ‘mopping’ as much as ‘smearing’. In hindsight, twelve sheets of paper weren’t quite enough because I found myself laying the last two sheets in my pants, doing up my trousers and waddling off back to the toilet roll dispenser to equip myself with more provisions. As I swung the metal door of the toilet open, I caught the glance of a young lady who had been waiting outside for her turn to use the cubicle. And as she entered, I felt paranoid that she would automatically assume I had been the typically selfish and clumsy male who had been responsible for the drizzle on the seat. All in all it was a most vile experience, on so many levels. Next time I will remember to pack some Immodium.

Sun 12th July 2009

2009-07-13T23:57:00.002+01:00

So I made it through my 21 day challenge without a drink (alcoholic drink I mean of course). I know it sounds like I am a mad alcoholic going on about a mere 3 weeks drink-free, but I do not genuinely believe I had a major problem to tackle in the first place. My motivation was based on a realisation that I was drinking more nights in a week than not. What a difference one day can make to the tiny tipping balance between three and four days, which so delicately underpins such a claim. If only there were eight days in a week, things would have been on a more even keel and wouldn’t have seemed such an issue (but of course the eight day week is just another example of the false promises The Beatles made to us). I suppose drinking more evenings than not implied I was using alcohol as a kind of avoidance, for time that could be better spent. But if abstinence has taught me anything it is that the mind is strong-willed; able to find plenty of other ways to procrastinate without the aid of the demon drink.

I was rather curious as to whether my dry spell would have any positive alleviation on my irritable bowel. Turns out it didn’t. One time in particular, my guts were in so much turmoil, I reckon I could have managed a faithful recreation of John Hurt’s famous scene in Alien quite ably. If I remember rightly, I similarly expelled quite a few Gieger-esque creations of my own that day.

But least there’s been a brief lifestyle change for me; I’ve had lots of fruit, summer salads, museli and cottage cheese and I’ve done loads of exercise to the gym. I must, at the very least, have lost a little bit of weight (whatever protestations my mother’s apparently accurate scales made to the contrary). And despite having just reached the end of my demi-detox, I have already concocted a new regime for myself, which involves having to work off the equivalent calorie count at the gym in advance of any drinking indulgences. This should help me obtain better control over my drinking and sustain a healthier lifestyle in the future. Even though there seems to be no discernable benefit whatsoever.

Sat 4th July 2009

2009-07-06T22:56:00.002+01:00

Regular readers may have noticed that I have not updated my teetotalism progress for a while. This may have led you to suspect I have fallen foul to the lures of alcohol, and have avoided mentioning it as an attempt to brush my failure under the carpet. On the contrary, oh ye of little faith. In fact the reason I have not been documenting this so much is because I have not really been thinking about it. I find the longer I go without a drink, the easier it is becoming. Over the past few years I have conditioned myself to drink on a Saturday evening, and last Saturday I did feel at a bit of a loss. But having managed to maintain restraint on that first weekend, I think I built sufficient personal confidence that my will is strong enough to succeed. And when alcohol is taken from the equation one is forced to think of more creative ways to spend a Saturday evening. In many ways, the pub just provides a bit of a cop-out from having to think about other ways with which to spend free time. But instead of widening my horizons I went to Derby to watch ace post-punk band The Nightingales (live entertainment being the thing I do for a living) at venue which was technically a pub (pubs being the place I’d usually spend my leisure time). Ok, so not the most wildly out-of-the-box thing to do but at least no-one can accuse me of changing and getting all sanctimonious just because I am sober.

When I got to the venue, a bearded and slightly inebriated fellow started chatting to me it. It transpired that this was the promoter of the show. He asked me where I had travelled from and I told him Wolverhampton. After hearing this, he said I could enter the gig for free. I told him that this wasn’t necessary but he was having none of it, insisting that he was losing so much money on the show it didn’t make any difference because his benefit cheque was due next week (such is the weird but affable logic of the booze-addled mind). It was very generous of him, but I am not quite sure what his reasoning was. The only viable explanation is that it is generally perceived that people from Wolverhampton are so unfortunate they should be treated charitably. We must be considered so wretched, that even unemployment is no barrier for pity.

The Nightingales were as impeccably ace as ever, and this is current incarnation of their revolving-door line-up is the strongest I’ve seen to date. But it was the support act, a New York-based duo called Christy & Emily,who were the biggest revelation. I would strongly advise you to get their album “Superstition”, which is the most fragile, ethereal and beautiful thing I’ve heard in ages. If I have learned anything at all from tonight, it is that you don't always have to be drunk to appreciate good music.

Fri 3rd July 2009

2009-07-05T23:34:00.001+01:00

Sorry I have been so long updating. This has been due to my dongle having failed to procure any sort of connection. This of course refers to my broadband connection and is not some innuendo to après-pos yet another entry trudging through the ‘filthy-minded, sad-loner’ territory. But while we are on the subject, I have now had a few thousand page-loads. You’d have thought one of you would have picked up on the sub-text of sexual desperation over the last few entries, and offered some kind of pleasurable relief. Not even the American who clearly found my blog arousing has been in touch. Honestly, it’s all take with you people. In fact the nearest I’ve come to any sort of offer recently is this graffiti I pass in town on my way to work.

I presume it to be some sort of sexual open invitation. But you can’t even know this for sure, because any clarity of intent seems so ambiguous. If we were to take the meaning of the graffiti literally, this is a ‘gal’ called Dave, who happens to be able to use her eyes for their intended function. It is strange how she feels her sense of sight to be her most prevailing character trait. What a wasted opportunity. Surely the ‘gal’s’ vision is something we can take as a given, since she has clearly been able to legibly operate a spray can. I would argue that the absurdity of a ‘gal’ being called “Dave” is of much more prevalent interest, yet she seems only to have mentioned this as a tacked-on, passing after-thought. Clearly she would need some assistance with prioritising if she is ever planning to publish an autobiography. Although should anyone wish to point this out to Dave, it is convenient there is a mobile number to get in touch.

Thu 2nd July 2009

2009-07-04T14:59:00.006+01:00

One of the interesting things about keeping a blog is seeing the types of Google search terms that visitors have used to find your page. You can learn some surprising things about people by the types of web-pages they’ve visited prior to yours.

Today I discovered that someone from New York who had found this page after using the search terms “pubic hair”, “mother’s friend” and “cum” together. One can only make assumptions about what was being searched for, but imagine what a crushing disappointment it must have been when they came across this blog (perhaps ‘came across’ is a poor choice of wording, but you get what I mean). It is a big responsibility to consider you have ruined someone’s evening plans who you have never met, just by existing.

Had the searcher just been looking for “Mother’s Friend” and “pubic hair”, one could at least consider that they were maybe hunting out some type of thrush cream, “Mother’s Friend” probably being the kind of discreet but suggestive brand name that might have existed for such an application during the war. But there is little doubt this was a quest for salacious material to quench a specific perversion. The perversion itself is rather more ambiguous. Possibly someone rather fancied their mother’s friend, but didn’t know what their name was and had chanced upon the internet as a resource to find some compromising material about them. The dirty sod.

I decided to click the link to Google myself to follow the path of this curious American and his interest in “Mother’s friend”, “cum” and “pubic hair” (I know what you might be thinking – but this really was just for research purposes only and for no other reasons. I was definitely not motivated by any of my own lustful curiosities. I could see how yesterday’s blog entry wouldn’t bode too favourably towards my protestations of innocent intent; but for Christ-sakes, can’t you just let that one day go? You’re obsessed, man!)

I was interested about how “Days of Enlightenment” had managed to get itself categorized in alongside the keywords “Mother’s Friend”, “pubic hair” and “cum”. And sure enough, as I perused the Google search results, there was my humble blog. Go look for yourself (thankfully this links to the 3rd page of search results so I am not the top entry - which is a bit of a relief, as clearly it means I’m officially not the world’s biggest authority on matters involving “Mother’s friend”, “pubic hair” and “cum”. Unless the persistent use of the words, "Mother's friend", "cum" and "pubilc hair" in this entry has now tipped the balance and put me at the top-spot).

I was a little taken a-back by the little summary that Google had used underneath the link. It rather oddly quoted me as having written:-

“At some point during this feast, my mother's friend enquired about my own tearing my pubic hair out with own my bare hands in sheer, self-loathing.”

Now I had no recollection of my “mother’s friend enquiring about my tearing my own pubic hair out in sheer self-loathing” whatsoever. How could I have simply forgotten the occurrence of such a strange (and seemingly very dark) episode in my life? I had to click on the link to my own page just to refresh my own memory and check that something so traumatic hadn’t happened to me in the last couple of months, that it had been completely erased from my memory (as I have seen the film “The Machinist” and understand such things do happen). And in any case, I was curious as to who was this friend of my mother’s was, with whom I feel comfortable enough to openly discuss clinical levels of misanthropy and violent, depair-fuelled hair removal techniques from areas that should normally not be spoke of in the presence of a mother’s friend.

Thankfully, when I clicked on my own blog it turned out that this description was not from one specific event, but a rather unfortunately sequenced composite of a couple of different blog entries (from here and here). I believe my American friend may have found a misrepresented version of me. I was relieved that I had I still had my pubic hair but I also wonder if this is this how MP’s and celebrities feel when they go on about getting quoted out of context? I should probably sue Google for deformation of character.

Perhaps more worrying, is the fact that this American actually read this brief content description of my blog and actually decided to click on it. Had this sort of thing been exactly what he’d set out to look for all along? Does his ideal fantasy involve some lower-middle class bloke from England discussing ripping his pubic hair out over dinner with his mother’s friend? Had this been some sort of onanistic jackpot to him?

I think you’ll agree this is quite a revealing perversion to discover about someone. And yet someone had the audacity to leave a message on yesterday’s entry calling ME a grotty man! How ironic that you all thought you had free admission to some of the darker thoughts of my mind, yet all along I could have been staring at yours. Now that’s made you paranoid hasn’t it! At least you know how I feel on a day-to-day basis. We’ve all learned something today. Specifically, I’ve learned a new literary device for provoking an authentic new type of empathy between writer and reader. And you’ve learned about some of the strange perverted desires that Americans have.

Wed 1st July 2009

2009-07-01T23:17:00.002+01:00

I don’t know what it is about the hot weather, but it always makes me feel insatiably horny. In my lunch hour today, I was walking through the high street looking at some of the passers-by, feeling positively aroused. Now if you’ve ever been to Wolverhampton, you will appreciate this is no mean feat. For any readers who have never witnessed the people of our town (they call it a City, but it will always be a town to me), just imagine the queue at your local Greggs the Bakers. Can you picture that? Now imagine that a heyday Geoff Capes enters the shop amidst some kind of nervous breakdown, and indiscriminately launches into a fit of merciless violent attacks. With a hammer. The resulting aftermath gives you a vague idea what the populace of an average Wolverhampton street looks like. In other words it is grim. The only saving grace is that at least it’s not as grim as Dudley. For any readers who have never witnessed the people of Dudley, just imagine the kind of produce sold at your local Greggs the Baker. Now imagine that a heyday Geoff Capes enters the shop amidst some kind of nervous breakdown, and indiscriminately launches into a fit of merciless violent attacks. With a pnuematic drill. Any resulting chunks of squashed pastry and smeared gushy filling gives you a vague idea what the populace of an average street in Dudley looks like.

I am joking of course. I don’t know why I am specifically attacking the people of Wolverhampton or Dudley. I could have picked anywhere. In many ways, these are actually the most ill-advised places in the world for me to be making fun out of, as I am effectively in danger of alienating myself from both my home-town and its neighbouring town as well. This isn’t so much shitting on my own doorstep, as frenziedly wanking through my own letterbox.

Although judging by the current state of my libido, that coquettish letterbox might yet turn out to be a tempting consummation.

Sun 28th June 2009

2009-06-29T00:28:00.002+01:00

Sundays. What exactly are they FOR? I am sorry if what I am about to say makes Jesus cry, but its official; Sundays are rubbish. I always suspected as much, yet there’s been a niggling doubt in my mind. In the past I thought my dislike of the Sabbaths was because they were always a groggy comedown from Saturday’s alcohol indulgences. But now I have checked through eyes of full-consciousness and sobriety, I can now objectively verify that Sundays are just plain rubbish. And don’t talk to me about what a lovely hot summer’s day it’s been either. If anything, the nice weather only made it worse. Personally I wish it had it lashed down. At least it would have been a more honest representation of the Sunday vibe. You can’t polish a turd.

Actually I’ve just researched this matter on the internet and apparently you can polish a turd; either by lacquering it, baking it to remove all the moisture, adding a caking agent or allowing it to fossilise. It also says you could laminate it, but this would be a bit of cheat because you’d actually be polishing the shell rather than the faecal matter itself (honestly, I appreciate the fact that people need hobbies, but can you seriously believe some of the pedantic drivel that some people clog the cyberspace up with?)

In case you can’t tell, I am feeling bitter. If you’ll remember a few entries ago, I stated my intention to have a weekend away at Shell Island. Then as soon as I saw the downpour on Friday afternoon, I showed my trademark lack of resilience, immediately pulling out of the trip. But it seems that those who had persevered ended up being rewarded with glorious weather. I, on the other hand, went for a Sunday roast. Now usually I love Sunday dinner. You ask anyone who knows me and they’ll tell you as much. But the trouble is that hot weather doesn’t lend itself well to a Sunday roast. And on days like today, the consumption of such a dish is more a task than a pleasure. Honestly, attending that plate was like stoking an engine furnace. At least when you embark on a rigorous task, you expect that it might make you sweat, but heavy perspiration is not a pastime I wish to indulge in when I am at my leisure. I may have soldiered on, but couldn’t help resenting having paid good money for the privilege of such hard work. I never thought I’d see myself typing these words, but I longed for a salad.

At one point the chef came over and asked if we had enough gravy. He needn’t have bothered. I was sweating so much that by the time I finished, that plate was awash with more gravy than when I started. What a strange and deeply unpleasant phenomena this must have looked to the young and rather attractive waitress who collected our plates. I actually felt a bit embarrassed. This made me sweat even more.

Maybe I am being too hard on Sundays. After all, this was just one unfortunate occasion when I’d made a bad choice about how to end my week. That’s not really Sunday’s fault is it? Perhaps I’m being a bit petulant.

Oh well. I suppose I’ll have to have another crack at a Sunday next week and see how that one goes.

Sat 27th June 2009

2009-06-28T12:37:00.001+01:00

In case you were wondering about the progress on my teetotaller’s bingo card, here it is. Because I’ve hardly given drinking so much as a passing thought, I have neglected to include it on the last few entries. The only reason for including it here is because today has been a bit more challenging. It seems like almost everyone has a good old glug on a Saturday night, and this has indeed been my own regular behavioural pattern for quite some time. I opted to keep away from pubs (I usually consider pubs to be the best places in the world, but if you’re not drinking, the thought of going just seems like some sort cruel self-flagellation). Of course some people will argue that the main point of pubs is the social angle, but bollocks to that – when you’re a fully fledged misanthropist like me, what’s the point? Only the soothing, escapist qualities of alcohol from this prolonged wail of despair we call life, holds any sort of appeal (since I am financially secure, with no health worries living in a crime-free suburban village with no poverty or violent oppression to worry about, I am only joshing when I say this. To a certain extent).

To console my longing, I treated myself to an Indian takeaway for tea. Unfortunately, my irritable bowel seems to have taken exception to it, which ironically means I have all the intestinal turmoil of a heavy drinking session without any of the fun. More proof that if there is a God, he is a vengeful entity who punishes, rather than rewards our good intent. He is a grander equivalent of an abusive spouse in a rather hammy soap-opera, punching you in the face whenever you try to be a better person. Who would want to praise someone so fundamentally spiteful? Like all evil soap-opera characters, he is a pantomime baddy in the making, and far from being celebrated, it seems more appropriate we greet him with a chorus of boos and hisses every Christmas.

Once again, I feel obliged to stress that I’m only exaggerating my alcoholic plight for tragicomic effect. But there was one very genuine moment today, when I was suddenly consumed by a striking desire to sit in the warm evening sun, on a pub patio with an icy cold pint of lager. And when I remembered I was on the wagon, I did feel a rather abrupt pang of remorse. I must also confess at this point, to briefly considering whether it would technically be cheating to get myself a few consolatory cans of Kaliber or Shandy Bass (you must understand, it was the idea of that lagery taste that I currently craved, not loss of sobriety). I had no idea what my policy on Kaliber was, mainly because I had not covered this in my list stipulations before I set out on this epic battle of abstinence. Do these drinks contain traces of alcohol, thereby still being technically potential classed alcohol consumption? Would it somehow be tainting my achievements to indulge; undermining the point of this exercise, by maintaining a kind of behavioural crutch by association? Does it show a stronger will to go ‘cold turkey’ on all beer-based drinks altogether? Or was it just abstinence from the effects of intoxication that was important? Clearly I had been hoisted by my own lack of preparation when setting my initial targets and motivations. What I really needed was some sort of independent adjudicator to set the rules for me. So I headed round to the bookshop to see my mate Al. But when I explained my plight to him, he merely shook his head, like a disapproving father who had inadvertently stumbled upon his son’s stash of granny-porn. From one simple “he’s a lost cause” type of look in his eye, I realised what a desperate and pathetic character I had become. After all, I was CONSIDERING BUYING KALIBER - an appallingly low act in itself, irrespective of any dubious motivations behind it.

So thankfully I resisted, and can cross off another day of my progress chart with an untainted conscience. And although I may have conjured an exaggerated version of my dependence for the purposes of this entry, I still can’t help feeling genuinely chuffed to have resisted those fleeting lures of temptation.

Honestly, if it wasn’t for the stash of crack cocaine stuffed under my pillow, I don’t know how I’d have got through it.

Fri 26th June 2009

2009-06-27T02:46:00.005+01:00

I’d like to use today’s blog to say a few words; pay my own very special and personal tribute to someone. If you happened to catch the news this morning you might have already seen what I am referring to. I am of course talking about Susanna Reid, the lovely BBC Breakfast presenter. I like her a lot. Not as much as this man here clearly does, obviously. I like her the about the right amount.

Hers is the first face I see after opening my eyes on a Friday morning. And in my mind, that makes her the closest thing to my wife (only a wife that I actually still find titillating and have not yet started taking for granted. Which in a way is better. So no there's need to patronise my lonliness with your detatched sympathy). She is clearly humble too, often choosing to play down her lad-mag potential by pulling odd little faces at camera.

At one point during today’s inevitable coverage of the death of renowned West Ham supporter Michael Jackson, lovely Susanna corrected her co-presenter (I don’t know his name, but who cares anyway. It’s not like I’ve any desire to search for HIM on Google Images like Susanna- which incidentally I did solely for the research purposes of procuring referential pictures for this blog entry, rather than for any other reasons) over the origin of one of the photo stills on the screen. He was in the flow of narrating one of them picture gallery tributes, saying something like “And here he is on the cover of ‘Off The Wall’”. Then suddenly Susannah interrupted her co-host to inform him that is was actually the cover from the “Billie Jean” single. There was a brief pause as both of them looked a bit momentarily stunned at what had just been said. Technically she was probably right, but either way, surely it was irrelevant given the contextual gravitas of the greater story. Nevertheless, I felt all a-quiver. Maybe it was the earnest dedication to pedantry that I found so profoundly arousing.

Susannah soon realised her tactless frivolity and was soon trying to justify herself, saying “I just wanted to correct you, before we had thousands of letters of complaints from people saying you got it wrong.” Because of course if you were a Michael Jackson fan, the last thing you’d want to see is the legacy of his life being defiled through any possible misrepresentative media speculation. You just wouldn’t be used to that sort of thing, would you? And this is the cover art of his DISCOGRAPHY we’re talking about! What else is interesting enough about the mythical, super-rich and darkly troubled pop-star to neglect referring to his sleeve art correctly?

Usually, I would have snorted derisively upon witnessing such a haplessly flailing display of banter before my eyes. Definitely if Kate Silverton was at the helm (she seems to be trying too hard to pull the intellectual MILF schtick, but without her adept skills of pronunciation she is nothing more than a potential ‘flashback’ scene for Diedre Barlow, should the writers of Coronation Street go all ‘Twin Peaks’). But no, this was Susanna and Susanna never gets even the faintest scoff from me. And in her defence, after the endless mawkish loop of celebrity tributes, and massively hypocritical tabloid opinion u-turns, this moment was the most honest and human piece of Jacko coverage I’ve seen all day.

Thu 25th June 2009

2009-06-26T23:49:00.002+01:00

Rather than going to for my regular Thursday night in The Swan pub, I took away any temptations to drink, by heading round my mates’ bookshop. When I arrived I headed off to the kitchen to make us a cup of tea, where I found a bottle of milk on the draining board. Since it was not found in any refrigerating device, I gave it an obligatory sniff before pouring. The fact I released a rather audible (and laughable) retch would imply that the contents of the bottle had probably seen better days. Actually -judging by the awfulness of the stench, they had possibly seen better millennia.

It gave me a flashback to my days living in a shared lad’s house, where selecting one of the numerous half bottles that had often rather curiously been left in close proximity to a radiator, became a punishing game of Russian roulette. Now let’s not beat around the bush, I am a self-confessed slob. In fact, my room was actually nicknamed the ‘grief-hole’. But when it came to slobbery I was no better or worse than the other inhabitants. If cleanliness is next to Godliness, then our house was quite literally condemned to hell.

I can still smell the washing up bowl which was like experimental soup, with its crutons of condiments and cutlery, the stray bin bags sitting fetid by the door, the carpet of yesterday’s papers strewn across the floor, mountains of cigarette-ends piled in the ashtrays. In fact amongst this anarchy, the tenuously balanced ashtray contents bore the only house-rule: whoever bought the tumbling stack of fag butts down would have to empty the ashtray and clean the mess off the carpet. Looking back I suppose it was as good a cleaning-rota system as any. At best it discouraged smoking and at worst, it brought a entertainment element, a kind of game which rewarded skills of delicacy; a sort of ‘ashtray Jenga’ I suppose.

In fact now I am older I have come to realise there were other short-term benefits to such a life of slobbery. Essentially the low-maintenance element which meant one had more time to apply to more pressing activities; such as sitting in front of perpetual ‘Only Fools & Horses’ re-runs on UK Gold, then heading off to bed for a mid-afternoon nap/quick wank, before getting up later to catch the repeat cycle of the earlier ‘Only Fools & Horses’ re-runs on UK Gold. Then one more off the wrist before bed. Not that the wanking had any sort of direct relationship with the re-runs of ‘Only Fools & Horses’ you understand. For some reason I feel an obligation to re-emphasise this was a chronological, rather than simultaneous reporting of events. It is not impossible there may have been an occasion when one of Del Boy’s early working class ‘dolly birds’ permitted a kind of arousing, gritty sexual frisson, but if this ever happened, I certainly don’t remember it.

Also, that washing up bowl in the kitchen may have been grim, but it will certainly have paid some great dividends in strengthening my immune system. And as for the strewn pile of yesterday’s newspapers – well, they came in particularly handy the night one of my housemates came back drunk and was sick all over the floor (easy to wrap up and throw away, avoiding any carpet-stain implications. It all aided the audacious argument to get our deposits returned at the end of the tenure).

Of course, I do not and would not wish to live like that nowadays. That was all just a moment in time. It’s not like I have not been conditioned to live like this like some Pavlovian dog or anything. But the point is, that even in the bowels of anarchy, our house managed to adapt to its own perverse system of ecology. Maybe there’s a lesson embedded in that somewhere, about chaos finding its natural order. I would explore the idea further, only there’s an eighties sit-com is just starting on the telly. I may have seen this episode before, but fuck it, I’m feeling horny.

Wed 24th June 2009

2009-06-25T00:34:00.003+01:00

A colleague and I moved into a new office today. To celebrate the occasion, I went out to the £1 shop to buy essential provisions – two new tacky mugs for our tea. For myself, I bought a mug emblazoned with a “Carry On Matron” film poster. For my colleague, I bought a spectacularly tacky Elvis mug. Oh the smug glee of the condescending middle classes – ho ho ho.

I made my way to the checkout to be greeted by a woman with bobbed black hair. She looked at the mugs for a moment, before pointing at a sticker on them I had not previously noticed. It said “Buy 2 get one free”.

“You’ll have to pick another one if you wanna get one free” she announced.

I could have used my expert pedantry to deconstruct the vague language used on the sticker, by pointing out that the offer technically implied that if I bought two, one of them should be free. I could have helpfully advised that if it was necessary to buy 2 before taking advantage of a free mug offer, then surely the sticker would be less ambiguous if it were to say something like, “Buy 2 mugs and get a third free”. But I opted against doing this for 2 main reasons:-

1) This was a pound shop, so I did not want to look particularly miserly by trying to barter with products already priced at a mere £1 each.
2) I appreciated her seemingly genuine concern that I fully obliged my purchase offer, so it didn’t seem fair to inconvenience her with my linguistic pedantry.

I headed back to select another mug (this one had a baby wearing headphones – lovely!), and wandered back to the girl at the till. She looked at the three mugs, and looked at me. Then all of sudden, with no prompt or warning, she brazenly announced, “You don’t live with a woman do you?”

Well, as you can imagine, I was rather taken aback by this. How on Earth could she possibly know such a personal thing about me? This deduction was so unprecedented that I began to wonder if this humble pound-shop worker actually had some sort of special gift. Maybe she had some psychic powers. She certainly had a bit of the Mystic Meg look about her. And thinking about it, you don’t actually see that much of Mystic Meg nowadays, do you? Could it be that old Meg has fallen on such hard times, she is now trying to make ends meet by supplementing her wages with a till job at Wolverhampton Poundland? Of course not. If she really knew what I was thinking, (following her very vocal and public presumptions on my lifestyle) it is very unlikely she’d have been willing to serve me at all.

So for what other reason would she assume I did not live with a woman? Could she be implying that I am gay? Or that I am so grotesquely ugly I couldn’t possibly procure the affections of the opposite sex? Well – no. It transpired the reason she made this bold assumption was, in her words, “because none of the mugs matched each other, and a woman wouldn’t have allowed that.”

So there you go ladies - I’ve learned something new about wooing your affections today. How could I have been so foolish for so long? It was so obvious! Apparently you do not want a man with one tacky “Carry On Matron” mug, but a man with whole series of identical “Carry On Matron” mugs. From now on I will win your hearts, proving how I have tamed myself from chaos to a settled, ordered world. After all, no woman in their right mind could possibly love a maverick with arbitrary drinking vessels.

By the way, in case you were wondering, I am being sarcastic. I did not believe for one second that gender politics have reached such base levels of caricature. But in that checkout girl’s world, clearly they had. And so as not to disappoint, I humoured her stereotyped world-view of hapless blundering men, by accidentally leaving a foul anal mist with her at the check-out.

Tue 23rd June 2009

2009-06-23T23:08:00.001+01:00

Today I re-booted my gym regime with particular unprecedented gusto, by actually going before work. Yes that’s right – BEFORE work.

I rather enjoyed it too. You kind of get to start your day with an added vigour. Obviously one has to avoid the other people in the gym at that time; for they must be a bit over-enthusiastic towards their fitness – getting up so early clearly makes them a bit weird and sinister. Trust me; I know this because I have done the gym-before-work routine before. As I recall, I was on the cross trainer, heading close to my 4.5 mile target, when suddenly the fire alarm suddenly sounded. But rather than evacuating, all the weird gym enthusiasts just kind of carried on, completely non-plussed; even when the alarm had rung for a good 30 seconds or more. I thought it was odd that they had no regard for their own safety, but because I am a leader rather than a follower, I simply carried on with my exercise too. And as is so often the case with these things, it did turn out to be a false alarm. But even so, I thought their determination to continue exercising through the cacophony showed a strange level of enthusiasm towards weight loss. So strange, that I wonder if they just nonchalantly consider a blazing inferno the most effective way to burn calories or something.

In hindsight, this interruption had rather fortunate timing for me. Had I been taking a shower at the time when the alarm sounded, there’d have been no other people for me to follow the lead of. I’d have been faced with the dilemma of taking decisive action myself – either potentially risking my life by hoping it was a false alarm, or walking out to the car park’s fire assembly point whilst in a completely naked state. Given such a circumstance, I’m not quite sure what I’d have plumped for.

What if I’d actually chosen to evacuate? Seeing as it had turned out to be a false alarm and all the rest of the weirdo gym-freaks had no intention of abandoning their exercise, any passers-by would effectively witness me as a solitary naked man, standing very publically in a car park, for no conceivably visible reason whatsoever. So even though I’d have been the one person sensible enough to follow H&S protocol, it is me who would’ve actually been seen as the weirdo! Where’s the justice in that?

Mon 22nd June 2009

2009-06-22T22:55:00.003+01:00

Well I made it through the first day of alcohol abstinence, as attested by the picture of my little homemade ‘chart’ (which surely would stand as supporting evidence in any court of law).

I like my chart. It feels like a being a child in December using an advent calendar to count down the days to Christmas. Admittedly, a really grim little advent calendar made out of cheap lined notepaper and poorly scrawled biro which counts its way down to the next hit of intoxicating poison, but an advent calendar nonetheless. I am not saying I intend to market it or anything. Although if you would like to buy one off me, I am willing to make you one if you send me a postal order and an S.A.E. (that’s a ‘stamped addressed envelope’ to those who didn’t ever join the Beano fan-club or watch Saturday morning television in the 1980’s)

Maybe excitedly counting down the days to my next alcoholic beverage is not really encouraging the best spirit for this exercise. It’s also quite telling that year upon year, using a real advent calendar, I could patiently manage the anticipation of the 25 days till Xmas as a child (when a month seemed much longer because you’d had a comparatively smaller percentage of lifespan), yet I am only targeting a feeble 21 days till my next glug. But even so, it’s nice to monitor progress; it gives a sense of achievement. I am also merely an hour away from adding my next cross too! Unless I suddenly snap, and crack open the taunting bottle of wine in the cupboard downstairs, and glutinously pouring it all over my face, whilst my desperate tongue thrashes about, lapping the liquor in some breathless, near-sexual ecstasy. But that would be a spectacularly sad and unlikely sight, considering I never usually even drink on a Monday anyway.

The hardest part of my abstinence will be getting through a planned trip I have at Shell Island next weekend. I will be on holiday at a place which is famed for being rather desolate and having absolutely nothing to do; accompanied by people who will be filling their abyss of unobligated time with vast quantities of alcohol. That’ll be when the real challenge kicks in.

Incidentally, I don't blame you if you boycott reading this for the next 21 days. If I succeed, no doubt the entries will be going all dull and Cliff Richard all over yo ass. Otherwise, the entries will resemble the dullest Charles Bukowski novel never to be written. Either way, it's a grim prospect.

Sun 21st June 2009

2009-06-21T22:07:00.005+01:00

Can't believe Solstice is here already. It seems like the summer has only just started, yet here we are again, stood on the peak of the hill, peering down into the abyss of the gloomy, depressing, long wintery nights that await us. Maybe it’s for the best. I realised last night that I had been drinking for ten consecutive evenings; which may be some explanation as to why this blog has been so neglected of late. To be fair, this boozing has been as much to do with circumstance as opposed to genuine thirst. I went away for a few days and – well - you have to relax and have a drink while you’re on holiday, don’t you? Then the night I got back, there was a staff party, and the beer was at a heavily discounted price (£1 a drink) so, well, you have to take advantage those prices don’t you (and let’s not forget you need vast quantities of alcohol just to get through spending your own leisure time with work colleagues). Then it was Thursday, which is my regular weekly pub night. And before I knew it, the weekend had arrived – and well, you have to drink at the weekend don’t you, if only to escape the unbearable responsibility of unstructured time.

Oh dear. Reading that paragraph back, with all its tenuous excuses for glutinous glugging, I can see how this entry looks like a very public admission of an alcohol problem. That’s just brilliant - so now I can add ‘drinking problem’ to my ever-increasing list of failings. I don’t know why I do this stupid blog. When I started I thought it would be fun to keep a nice little light-hearted diary, but the whole thing has become more like the slow compilation of a monumentally grim CV of damning traits.

Having said this, we must also remember that the fundamental characteristic of a troubled drinker is to deny they have any sort of problem. So by freely confessing I have a problem must paradoxically mean I don’t actually have a problem at all. Q.E.D.

Or maybe my brain cleverer than I anticipated it to be; convincing me to admit I have a problem, so I can use this confession to form the basis of an even deeper denial.

Either way, I’m not taking any chances. I hereby use this entry to make a stark declaration of alcohol abstinence. Yes that’s right. For the next 21 days I intend to live in the harrowing world of complete sobriety. I think 21 days is just about long enough to boost my own confidence that I am not dependent, without going too over the top and setting myself an unnecessarily sanctimonious target. Because once I’ve pushed the “Publish” button on this blog entry, that’s it. It becomes real – a contract made in print, that can literally be accessed and referenced by anyone in the world. So since I really will have to jolly well stick to it, it's best to set myself easier goals. To contemplate sobriety for any more that 21 days would inevitably turn me into a desperate and gibbering wreck.

And let’s be honest, isn’t this blog neurotic enough already?

Tue 9th June 2009

2009-06-10T22:16:00.002+01:00

You join me mid-way through a troubled night. I am unable to sleep; probably all anxious and stuff about my first day back at work tomorrow. Which is now technically today. How perverse is my stupid, cretinous brain; worsening the anticipation of returning to work by making itself even more tired? Yeah, thanks brain! I’m sure you think this is a hilarious joke, in a kind of neurological sort of way. I hate you. Everybody hates you. In fact judging by all these self-loathing words you’re making me type, you even hate yourself (who’s laughing now then, you grey wrinkly tosser?)

I’ve just taken a couple of them Kalms tablets. Will they work? I’m not quite sure. They can be purchased at reputable chemists, which would imply they have a genuine medicinal value. But they can also be bought at those hippy emporiums which sell dehydrated fruit, obscure vitamins and cows made out of soya and tofu. That’s not to say all the shelves of yer Holland and Barretts are complete rubbish, it’s just that there is some stuff veering towards the exploitatively hairy-fairy, so you have to be a bit careful. Or at least, I need to be a bit careful. Especially being such a hypochondriac – those shops are a minefield. I’m forever discovering new supplements I never knew I needed, packed with nutrients I’ve never heard of, that I need in order to protect myself against ailments I never knew existed. When you are as vulnerable as I, it is better to arm yourself with a degree of cynicism in order to avoid becoming the next Pac Man. That’s why I insist on hard medical evidence before starting to habitually invest in some new tablet or some new ‘spirit strengthening aromatic bracken’.

Kalms are a weird one though, because they do have that one foot in the proper medical world, but I strongly suspect they are more a placebo medicine than anything else. I believe this for two main reasons:-

1) The pills taste all sugar coated and Smarties-esque before you glug them down. Medicines that work aren’t supposed to taste nice; they’re supposed to make you wince like a man anticipating a penal-administered catheterization.

2) The label on the bottle advises “If affected, do not drive or operate machinery”. This is a suitably ambiguous line. On the one hand, you think these must really work if they’re telling you not to drive after taking. But then the preceding words “if affected” make the whole thing seem dubiously uncertain. It’s almost like the even makers lack confidence in the effects of their products. And if they can’t be confident as to whether their product will work, then why the hell should I? I don’t want to hear the “if affected” bollocks, I want to be ORDERED not to drive or operate heavy machinery after taking, by threat of insurance-invalidating catastrophe and probable death.

Anyway, it is getting close to 3am now. Best stop blogging. I’ll let you know tomorrow how the Kalms did.

Mon 8th June 2009

2009-06-08T23:06:00.003+01:00

Nick Griffin is now an MEP even though he won fewer votes than he did five years ago. What can I say? I go on holiday for a few days, and when I’ve come back, this has happened. Can’t I trust you to look after anything when I’m away?

Although I do not live in Yorkshire or Humber, I suppose - in the fallout - I should also take my share of responsibility. I too was under the spell of voter apathy. I too saw the catchphrase “If you don’t vote, you’re not allowed to moan” as a challenge rather than a rallying call. A few days ago it just seemed a flimsy cliché. Anyone who has had to share a car journey with some squat-faced winging children will tell you that trying to shut them up on the grounds they ‘don’t vote’ and therefore have no right to moan is not a sustainable course of action. But now I realise what an idiot I’ve been. Turns out the cliches were right all along. I chose not to participate, and now the votes are in I have no right to moan.

There were also people telling me I should partake in the democratic process because “heroes died so I could vote”. I did not take kindly to the emotional blackmail element. I didn’t like the way that it was implied by not voting, I was somehow openly pissing over the graves of victims who had lay down their lives. After all, they fought for the democratic process, didn’t they? So surely they fought for my OPTION to vote, not for the vote itself? A stunt man once came to a tragic and untimely end on Noel’s House Party when his trick went horribly wrong. And although he died whilst trying to entertain the public, surely it doesn’t forever oblige us to watch Saturday evening light entertainment programmes in the name of respect, does it? I figured there are many reasons to vote, but guilt shouldn’t be one of them.

Here we are a few days later. I have a heavy heart, and am truly ashamed of myself. Once again I had missed the point completely. It was no protest not to attend the polling booths, just stupid short-sightedness. Yes - so the mainstream parties seem in most part a disappointing assortment of incompetent, back-biting, nauseating, self-serving, chortling Sebastians. Ok, so voting would have been like opening a packet of already-bland “Salt n Shake” crisps, to find the little blue bag of salt missing. But with the benefit of hindsight, every smart-arse little reason or argument I used to justify NOT casting a vote has now broken down. Essentially, we cannot allow our apathy or disillusionment be preyed upon by extreme bigots. The stakes are just too high.

If you were an abstainer like me, then I hope you also use this election as a warning of what sinister ideals can grow and fester when the majority sit back and watch (as if the whole Hitler thing wasn’t quite enough). We are not using our apathy for protest as much as we are having our laziness capitalised on by more dubious political causes. For God’s sake, let’s see this as a lesson learned. And please – let’s remember it in time for the general election.

Wed 2nd June 2009

2009-06-04T23:22:00.002+01:00

Today I went to Alton Towers, the major theme park tourist attraction, to experience some of them ‘white-knuckle rides’. These are rarely ever as scary as they look. In fact, as my sister observed, the most daunting moment is getting on them. You’re sitting in the seat and have pulled the restrainer over your head and across your chest, but you never feel satisfied until you’ve given it a little tug upwards again; y’know, just to check it’s locked properly. I reckon everyone does that.

This compulsion derives from those urban myths you hear about restrainers and seat belts coming loose whilst some poor sod is halfway round some terrifying rollercoaster, leaving them hanging on for dear life by a thread and a firm grip. I reckon everyone’s heard a story like that.

Rationally speaking, you know this is the sort of thing that only ever seems to happened to ‘a friend of a friend’ rather than anyone you’ve actually met, and you can’t help silently questioning why you never hear of any stress related / neglect-of-duty lawsuits being imposed on theme park operators. But you also simultaneously recognise that if YOU were one of the operators, probably from or near Stoke, having to confront the faces of grinning and screaming buffoons all day for a living, whilst trying to endure that same looping tape of atmosphere-building soundtracks (probably Swan Lake) - then would (or indeed should) customer welfare really be topping your agenda of priorities? Actually – given such a hellish existence, how long would it be until YOUR OWN welfare would willingly slip down your agenda of priorities? Forget questioning public safety; I ask how many bodies of suicide-driven theme park ride operatives are fished out the waters of the canyon-rapid ride each year?

As a means of ringing more tourist money from you, the theme parks often take photographs of you at the scariest point of their rides. The second time you go on any particular ride, you become savvy to the point where the camera is about to take its flash photo, so you consciously try and make your face a bit more deadpan and non-plussed; because those action-shots are never particularly flattering portraits are they? If a local paper were to report on my untimely and tragic death, I would not be too chuffed to think of one of those rollercoaster photos to be used to accompany it. I suppose most of the trade must come from friends who find amusement from seeing you looking vulnerable.

Humiliation-wise, those galleries of gurns at the end of rides are a modern day equivalent of the public stocks. You’ve never seen your face contorting in such a way. Your mates always seem to gawp at your photo, pointing and saying ‘hilarious’ thing like “Is that the same face you pull as when you’re ejaculating?” while they all have a good laugh. And even though your mates’ ribbing seems like a joke, you can’t help but feel secretly worried that the face you witnessed on that screen MIGHT REALLY BE the same one you pull when you’re ejaculating, because who are you to tell the difference?

Or maybe the last of these theme-park neuroses solely applies to me?

Mon 1st June 2009

2009-06-04T23:22:00.001+01:00

Saw an old friend today. We had a nice chat. We averted the issue that he recently tried to delete me from his list of friends on Facebook, by both choosing not to make reference to it at all. He is probably a little embarrassed because I had discovered his online snub. And in hindsight I am slightly embarrassed by the numerous desperate messages I sent in response, which begged and pleaded to know the reasons I had been so cruelly rejected this way, when we had never even had so much as a crossed word (although he did eventually concede to my seemingly emotionally-unstable harassment and reinstated me).

But this highlights a fundamental problem with Facebook relationships. If friends in real life drift away, it’s never really an issue. You might bump into one another and maybe you’ll sacrifice a couple of minutes to indulge polite conversation, or you might both avert your eyes and mutually pretend not to have noticed one another - no harm done, life goes on. But to actually ‘delete’ a friend seems like a rather bold statement. You’re basically telling the ‘deleted’ that, “I have such little regard for you I can’t even stand to see your name in a big list with a postage stamp-sized photo next to it.”

What’s the matter with these people? Do they go through their own phonebook with a pair of scissors, mercilessly cutting people out until it resembles some weird origami snowflake? I mean, to be honest I can’t stand half the fuckers in my ‘Friend List’ either. In fact the thought of them all gathering in one room together chills me to the core. It’d be too much of a juxtaposition, all those old school friends, colleagues, business contacts, distant acquaintances, family members, drinking buddies, ex-girlfriends, ex-housemates all being together, each with different memories of my personal failings and embarrassments from over the years, all on hand and ready to share. But even so, do I go round eliminating people from a list, like some sadistic Nazi general in a Jewish concentration camp? No I don’t - cos that’d just be rude!

Wed 27th May 2009

2009-05-31T23:49:00.005+01:00

Following the activities detailed in the last entry, it was inevitable that I would end up discussing my paranormal experiences (or lack of) with curious colleagues. We talked about how conceptually strange it is that people feel a need to believe in ‘something else’. I guess lots of folk just find consolation from the thought that there is a spiritual state following physical life. Fair play to them - I can certainly see how an assurance of a ‘secondary existence’ makes mortality issues easier to handle. But what I find puzzling is how so many find it comforting that, following bereavement, their deceased loved ones will continue to be with them, watching over them in spirit form.

Personally, I am not inclined to subscribe to these ideas. Not because of any great philosophical or intellectual motive. It’s just that the thought of being permanently watched is not something I consider particularly comforting. Quite the opposite. I am socially anxious at the best of times, permanently worried about drawing attention to myself in public places. The thought that I can’t even assure my solitude in the comfort of my own bedroom because of some invisible omnipresence, is one I find truly horrifying. Especially considering some of the sordid self-debasing desires I sometimes oblige whilst alone in said bedroom. As Leslie Grantham would probably agree, some things are best kept private. And all he was doing was sucking his own finger! Imagine the terror of embarking on an act of onanism, whilst all your dead grand-dads, nans, great aunties, uncles perch themselves spectator-like at the foot of your bed, saying things like, “Hodge round Glenys, I’m trying to see what he’s doing”. And where would it stop? What if Nan invites all her mates from the old Bingo night too, all stood round chattering to one another; “who is you say? Glenys’s grandson?” Your room could be jam-packed with unprecedented occupants; previous owners of the house, the inhabitants of nearby graveyard, literally anyone!

Brrr. How awful to think you were only conducting private personal pleasure, then to realise you are actually the conductor of a public symphony of self-abuse. You couldn’t even manipulate thoughts like these to incorporate a strange boost of sexual frisson (not that I have tried). The whole thing’s enough to give you psychosexual problems for the rest of your life. And why? ... Because there’s always that one nagging doubt isn’t there... What if the believers actually turn out to be right?

Mind you, I don’t think believers themselves are THAT confident. If they were, then what’d be the point in bothering to commit their onanism in a discreet and private context? If you’re gonna be being watched anyway, then theoretically you might as well just indulge yourself wherever the urge takes you; shops, libraries, bus shelters, photocopiers, Girls Aloud concerts, scantily-clad summer streets, anywhere you like. And yet I never see any of them dare. Funny that.

Sun 24th May 2009 & Mon 25th May 2009

2009-05-27T23:23:00.005+01:00

I spent the night at the hall I work at acting as the building’s key-holder for a group of paranormal investigators. They have visited before and reported some strange goings-on, the strangest of which apparently involving a moving light in the ceiling trusses coming to life of its own free will, visibly moving and glowing. The member of staff from the halls who was acting as guide for that night double checked whether there were any power supplies running. Everything was unplugged. To add to this inconceivable occurrence, upon his spoken request to for the spirit to repeat the trick, the light sprang into action a second time. You can read a report of it here. Personally, I have my own theories on this light incident; but am forced to concede that since I did not witness it myself, such theories would have little argumentative validity. The nearest thing I have to evidence about this bizarre happening is that it had the power to jolt said colleague from sceptic, to believer in the space of five minutes. You could quite literally say “he saw the light”. Tonight the paranormal investigators were returning at 9.30pm for a follow-up ‘dusk till dawn dead-hunt’ - and this time, I wanted in.

Now let me get this straight from the offset: I am a sceptic – plain and simple. Many people do really believe in ghouls, even fear them. But then many people also worry that swans can break your arms and yet I’ve never heard a solitary reported case of that. You may ask then - why was I doing this? If I was a “real” sceptic, surely I wouldn’t be bothering with such trifles. I’d just shrug and tell myself I had better things to do than go to work on a Bank Holiday Sunday looking for things I am so certain don’t exist. Am I just partaking as a means of having a few laughs at the expense of ‘them paranormal eccentrics’, scorning their ‘wacky’ behaviour, deconstructing their beliefs using rationality and hilarious condescending derision (as sceptics might like to read)? Or am I more uncertain about the spirit world than I care to admit; seeing this as an opportunity to perhaps question the very foundations of my ideology (as believers might like to imagine)? I’m not sure. It is certainly not my intent to make myself sound intellectually superior to believers (for me to proclaim or assume such intelligence would be more delusional than I could accuse any spiritualist of being). And neither do I genuinely anticipate any great revelations. I think of it more as an opportunity to test the confidence of my own scepticism. It’s an opportunity I feel I should embrace; otherwise my stance is grounded largely on unexplored ignorance.

Before I tell you about my experiences, I should warn you there is no grand motive behind what follows. It should be read for exactly what it is – one person’s personal account of a paranormal investigation; nothing more, nothing less. Undoubtedly my writings will be subjective and coloured by cynicism, but my main priority for this entry is to record a reasonably honest representation of how I perceived the events.

11.15pm – We are sitting on the balcony overlooking the hall in silence and darkness. Actually, not quite darkness; the scattered dull red and blue glows of the emergency lights and camcorder screens give just enough illumination to observe actions and reassure us against any human intervention or trickery. So – more correctly – we are sitting on the balcony, overlooking in the hall in near-darkness and in silence. Actually, not quite silence. The investigators are trying to engage with their spirit world by asking questions. A while ago, we started feeling tiny bumps under our feet where we are seated. They happen sporadically. Sometimes there’ll just be one thud at a time, sometimes two or three consecutively. They are certainly not caused by human contrivance; there’s no surreptitious foot-tapping or knuckle knocking from any of the crew. And even if you were to question my judgement on this (in fairness I would probably question yours, were it your report), it doesn’t actually feel like these raps are hitting down on the surface of the floor, it feels more like they are emanating upwards, as if someone is below is lightly tapping the balcony from underneath with a large broom. The psychic leader of the group asks her next question.

“Are you happy for us to stay here? Knock one for no or two for yes.”

With this prompt, there are two very specific audible knocks, followed by another silence. We sit intently. The psychic uses her next question to seek clarification:
“If you would like us to leave, knock three times”.

Incredibly, three knocks follow. Everyone around me inhales sharply in unison. One response could be co-incidence, but two in a row? The team pack up their camcorders, clipboards and K2 machines and we head off to explore the next area.

Please let me assure you, everything I have written so far is absolutely true. I may have misquoted the questions as they were specifically asked, but I have generally given an accurate report. And given such evidence, it would be difficult for some not to subscribe to the belief that those knocks had certain serendipity.

I have, however, so far omitted my account leading up to this event. If you’ll remember, I said the team were arriving at 9.45pm. The omission is quite deliberate. The time leading up to 11.15 was positively dull and barely worth mentioning. Sure, there was the bit we located whereabouts the knocking was coming from – that might have been of interest. But everything else was peripheral. Were I to summarise the proceeding hour and half, it would have consisted of long silences, dozens of questions from the psychic and dozens of temperamental, seemingly unrelated knocking noises. Any relationship between the question and the knocking would seem less to do with serendipity and more to do with statistical odds. And this might have spoiled the illusion, right? Far be it from me to discredit myths and spoil stories with statistical odds. What right does my little blog have to spoil the ‘game-plan’ of the common man, should he ever get on Deal or No Deal?
... Sorry... I promised not be snobbish, remember. What I’m trying to say is that it wouldn’t have been right to paint a scene in which a group of people ineffectively try to communicate with arbitrary noises. People talking to an empty room would just seem mental. Quite literally. Trying to hold court with no-one could possibly even lead to being committed. But then I’m not in the best position to be pushing the mental health issue. For I am a man who is choosing to watch people talk to an empty room; which is like voluntarily spectating fishermen holding their rods over a lake bereft of fish. I might believe their fishing futile, but at least the men believe they have a purpose. For me to know the pond is empty and yet carry on watching... well that’s even more absurd, isn’t it?

11.55pm – I should have mentioned this earlier, but the investigators actually explore the buildings in two different teams. I have a colleague who is also acting as a guide for the other group. People from either group are forbidden from conversing about their team’s findings in case it pollutes each other’s perceptions of the rooms. Both teams have been issued with a walkie talkie, presumably for emergencies, but primarily to keep each other abreast of their locations. Whenever one party wishes to move into another area, they radio to the other. That way, there can be no misconceptions of the sound of nearby footsteps or activity. I needed to bring you up to speed, because it is relevant to something that’s happening now.

The other group are currently in some toilets below ground level. It is claimed to be the area most rife with spirit activity. In fact a couple of the staff I work with actually refuse to go down there, opting to use alternative upstairs loos instead. We will be exploring the area ourselves later, but right now we are in the room where the fabled lighting incident occurred. Little has happened so far, irrespective of the team’s continuing plea to see a repeat of the last light show. I am discovering very little, other than apparently spirits like to be addressed as if they were shy children being shown off to family friends.
“Can you shine the lights for us? Come on don’t be shy. You did it for us last time. Why won’t you play with us? We’re not going to hurt you...”

At one point they even resort to a blackmail approach:
“We’re not leaving till you shine a light. We know you can do it. We’ll wait all night if we have to!”

But like I say, nothing much has happened. Well almost nothing. There have been some clicking noises through the walkie-talkie. Short spats of static through the speaker. I’ve made them aware that it’s probably interference from the radios of the passing late night bank holiday taxis, yet they have collectively decided - fuck it, in the absence of anything else, we might as well run with something. That’s the funny thing about the human mind. Like the hallucinations of a man in solitary confinement, it is easy to start ‘making’ activity happen just to dispel the sheer boredom. At this rate, we could be doing the foxtrot with Freddie Mercury come two o’clock.

It has been verified with the other team that no buttons are being accidently pressed on the corresponding radio to be making this noise, and now it is left to the spirit world to justify the clicks.
“Are you trying to communicate with us through the radio? Is there someone you would like to talk with?” the psychic asks. The radio clicks again. This is taken as a yes (obviously).
“Are you trying to talk to someone in particular? Are you trying to talk to me?” she continues. The radio remains silent. Determined to continue on this seemingly tenuous path, she begins a name-call for each attendee.
“Use the radio if you’re trying to talk to Wayne.” she says. We wait in anticipation. There is no noise.
“Use the radio if you’re trying to talk to Pam.” she perseveres.
Still nothing.
And similarly, nothing happens for Carol or Ken either. There is only one person left to be addressed. That person is me. Oddly enough, I am now feeling a little tense about it. Not because of a fear of spirits wanting to talk to me, but more that I’m afraid of the group’s focus will end up on me. I do not want to be exposed to their sole attentions for the next hour whilst they stand round making assumptions about me.
“Use the radio if you’re trying to talk to...”
I am suddenly startled as I sense a very real vibrating feeling against my leg. In fact ‘startled’ is too mild. I admit it - I almost lose my bowels; terrified I am about to have an enlightenment which will shake my tower of scepticism from its very foundations...

It is a just text message arriving. After a sharp breath of relief, I pull the phone from my trouser pocket. The text is from a friend curious to how the ghost-hunt is going:
“Have you shit yourself yet?” she asks. I slip the phone back and have a little chuckle.

“Almost Ceris”, I think to myself.

Almost.

12.55am - “Throw something on the floor.”

Officially speaking it is Monday. We are now nearing the end of the fable ‘witching hour’, but the psychics investigators are still looking for a morsel of action with which to feast. Lights, movements, anything; even sounds will do.

“Can you make a banging noise like this” one of the group asks, before thumping her fist on the floor to demonstrate. Yet another silence. Then she asks a question which seems particularly odd to me, “Ok then, could you make a whistling noise for us instead?”

I can just about handle the concept of the spirit world manifesting into electromagnetic energy, causing bumps and movements and appliances springing into action. But can spirits really whistle? Surely whistling is a more difficult skill to acquire than simply just, well... talking, actually? I know lots of people who can talk, but when you ask them to whistle they sound about as coherent as a loading ZX Spectrum game. I thought the key thing about spirits is that they are non-material. How on earth can something with no lips or breath be expected to transmit a whistle?

01:42am – We’ve sitting around in the darkness doing nothing for hours now so both groups have reconvened to take a break. Exactly what we are taking a break from I’m not too sure, given that we’ve been sitting around in the darkness doing nothing for hours. There really hasn’t been much to report. The only thing my group noticed was that the flushing of the upstairs urinals has been out of sync. Apparently each of the urinal walls ordinarily operate their automatic flush in turn, starting from left to right. Then there’ll be a good space of time before the next cycle starts. Tonight they have not only been flushing in a random order, there are times when two troughs have been flushing together. And the cycle has been constant too, meaning that there is at least some flushing going on at any one time. As you’ll agree - not exactly spine-tingling stuff. I can’t imagine Stephen King banging on our door anytime soon.

Whilst we are all together, I am curious to see if my colleague’s experiences with the other group fared any better. As you’ll remember, people from each group are forbidden to talk about these until the investigation is complete. Luckily, this only rule applies to the psychic investigators themselves so I collar him for an inquisition.

My fellow keyholder is a believer. Their investigation of the downstairs toilets has thrown up lots of intriguing incidents. The team’s K2 machines were going crazy. The ghost down there is called Harry, but likes to be called Edge (not too shocking in itself as I presume this is ‘information’ the psychic relayed). But Edge is a very playful spirit. The most intriguing claim is that he has touched every single one of them. I mean actually physically prodded them. My colleague advises that if I want to see just how playful ‘Edge’ actually is, I should roll the ball towards him to see what happens.

I’m excited by what I hear. Sceptic or not, who wouldn’t be? Make no mistake: these happenings are not tenuous ‘could-have-beens’, like floors knocking and radios clicking. These are the real deal. You could rationally explain away the sensation of being physically touched by something as a simple trick of the mind, but it becomes a lot more complex when defined as a collective experience. Similarly, imagine seeing a ball being rolled back towards you of its own accord. Whether scientific rationality comes to the rescue or not, that’s a pretty damn impressive spectacle. It sure beats standing in our toilets for the best part of an hour studying the plumbing.

02:45am – More disappointment. Edge may have been out earlier, but is certainly not willing to come out and play with our group. I am in the aforementioned ‘haunted’ toilets and disappointingly nothing physical has happened (now there’s a sentence I never wish to see being quoted out of context). But the scene is not completely devoid of drama. Bizarrely, the psychic is clutching her belly and rocking backwards and forwards whilst her friend is shouting things like “Leave her alone! Stop affecting her!” It’s all very odd. And very frustrating too. Can the psychic and her friend really believe a possession is happening? I wouldn’t be so bold as to accuse anybody of acting. Although if I was her, and we’d seen absolutely diddly-squat, I might be worried my followers would feel their evening completely wasted. One wasted evening too many and soon your flock will soon lose interest and start dispersing. Like I say, I’m not calling anyone a liar, but surely it’s not impossible that I’d be tempted to put on a little performance art? Just a little climactic treat to keep the enthusiasm going until the next hunt?

03:05am - I bid the investigators goodnight. There was no big pay-off or revelation. Before I arrived I was a sceptic, and had simply used every scrap of evidence presented as a means to reassure my ideological disposition. On the other hand, my fellow key-holder was a believer before he started and spent the night building every scrap of evidence to as a means to reassure HIS position. We both held our opposing viewpoints despite being there on the same night. A sceptic will always say “prove to me there’s something there”. A believer will always say “prove to me it’s not there”. It’s a circular argument that changes nothing really. Sometimes a viewpoint can be changed (as demonstrated by our previous keyholder quite literally seeing the light), but rarely are embedded values so flexible.

It’s later (or earlier) than I imagined. As I walk to my car, the dawn is cracking over the night sky. I wonder whether I’ll attend another investigation sometime. Give Edge and his ball rolling another shot. I decide I probably won’t.

Think about the beauty of the rainbow, the flowers in the garden and of all the creatures we share the Earth with; all the things we can see and touch. Think about all the mysteries from the smallest atoms to the mightiest planets. Think about a smile and a teardrop and everything in-between. Why would I need more? Hasn’t the world already presented us with enough complex puzzles to last us a lifetime? There is so much to be getting on with already, so many wonders to uncover in the living physical world. How could I possibly be bored enough to afford more leisure time in the dark? Why would I insist on looking for the un-findable when I haven’t yet mastered what’s before my very eyes? Let the investigators stay in their toilets and dark cellars. I wouldn’t tell them to do any different; if that’s what they like, fair play to them. But from now on, I think I’ll stick with the life that awaits outside.

Sat 23rd May 2009

2009-05-25T17:48:00.003+01:00

I utilised the nice weather by going on a 20 mile bike ride down the canals with my Dad and my Sister. We probably could have gone even further too, but the route was particularly bumpy and we started becoming victim to ‘saddle arse’ (well, not my Dad. In typical Dad-style, he’d had both the foresight and inhibition-less tenacity to apply Vaseline to his 'dark star' as he called it, before we set out). It was my sister who was the most vocal about this complaint. I was secretly pleased because it meant that I didn’t have to moan about my own saddle arse and look like it was me who wanted to give up first.

Whenever a woman moans in the company of men, I am always tempted to respond with the cheeky quip, “Why are you moaning so much? I thought fat women were supposed to be jolly?” Yeah, I know what you’re thinking – what with yesterday’s entry detailing lairy distress of the French and now this - have I got my eye on a on being some sort of heir to Jeremy Clarkson, but I like the idea of this joke. I would not think of saying it to someone recovering from an eating disorder or anything, but I don’t see it really being about weight. Response-wise, it’d work irrespective of a person’s size because the humour derives more from the kind of haplessly tactless audacity of the statement rather than of weight itself. Yet despite temptation I have always refrained from using it. Maybe when all is said and done l feel political uneasiness over whether such a joke could really be perceived as non-sexist and self-deprecatory. Or maybe I have just become too accustomed to the rotund, three-dimensional shape that my own testicles currently inhabit.

I’ve actually caught a touch of sunburn. I’ve got that (not entirely unpleasant) ‘Ready Brek’ glow which keeps you warm as you stroll around in the evening dusk. And when I walked through the doorway of the pub tonight I thought I was actually walking under a patio heater, because my forehead was so sensitive to the warmth of the indoor air. I’d almost forgotten what that feels like. I’m sure there must have been some sunny spells but the last two summers have seemed such an unremitting wasteland of overcast gloom, that whenever people commented that I ‘look like I have caught the sun a bit’, my disbelief and hypochondria kicked in to convince me I must simply have symptoms of high blood pressure. But today there is no question; it is sunburn, so I can be confidently liberated from any blood pressure fears and worry about something more worthwhile. Actually, given the nature of hypochondria, I’ll probably just worry about skin cancer instead. Technically speaking, this isn’t a prospect that’s any better; but then they do always say a change is as good as a rest.

Fri 22nd May 2009

2009-05-25T17:45:00.001+01:00

Tonight felt like the start of a ‘proper’ bank holiday. Seems a long time since its been warm enough to spend the evening drinking outside on the pub‘s patio (albeit the short while before the temperature dropped to a level forcing us back indoors again). But for an hour or so, this was the sort of night you’d expect to have to fly abroad to find nowadays. It is little wonder the Brits have drink so heavily when they go over to the continent. The novelty of consuming alcohol outside is simply too much to squander and the consistent warmth over the full duration of the continental evening gives the illusion that it is never gets late; like a perpetual post-dusk state. This is certainly how I remember feeling when my friends and I took a brief sojourn to a youth hostel in Nimes a couple of years ago. I also remember both the weather temperature and the previous night’s pre-flight lack of sleep had made me feel very lethargic by the time I arrived. No sooner had we checked into the hostel, I actually had to take a mid-afternoon nap for an hour or two in one of the shared dorms, just to get somewhere feeling vaguely near human again.

After a snooze and a shower, we spent the rest of the evening sitting on the patio and before we knew it the whole of the first day there had already disappeared. In fact most of the first night had disappeared too. We had lost the time eating copious amounts of cheese, smoking copious amounts of tobacco and drinking copious amounts of red wine. To be honest I am not sure whether this makes us typical lazy uncouth Brits, or tourists who were fully willing to embrace and consume the French culture. I like to believe it is the latter, but out of all the other international travellers at the hostel we were the last to retire to the shared dorms, and we were undoubtedly the most inebriated.
Despite my dizzy head, I managed to stumble in the darkness through the sleeping masses towards the bunk I’d napped in earlier. Unbuckling my belt, my trousers dropped round my ankles and drunkenly leaned back to sit myself on the bed. But as I did so, I was startled by a noise from beneath me. It sounded like someone crying “Non-non-non!” I also became conscious of two hands clasping my arse cheeks trying to push me back up to a standing position. I jumped up quickly, as the horror of the situation hit me; I had nearly sat on a Frenchman. But if I was filled with horror, it was surely nothing in comparison to the poor French lad himself. My arse is particularly hairy and he had effectively just been awoken to the sight of two giant granary baps slowly descending towards his face – a breakfast in bed that not even the continentals would want to suffer. I pulled up my trousers and scrambled away to another bunk.

It was a bit embarrassing at the time. I always feared the French lad thought my behaviour as a shameful example of s ‘Brit on the piss’ oafishness. I hope not. I don’t like thinking in terms of national stereotypes. I’d prefer it if he sees the incident as a befitting tribute to the classic French bedroom farce that they all find so incredible humorous. Like I say, I am the type of tourist who makes effort to embrace local culture.

Wed 20th May 2009

2009-05-20T23:36:00.009+01:00

I spent the day in the fresh air, putting leaflets and posters about with our promotional distribution guy pictured here. He is called Jim The Bastard (specifically pronounced bar-stad, to acknowledge his Southampton accent). Even though he is clearly of senior years, this nickname seems to have found a zeitgeist with the rest of my office colleagues, seeming to get adopted quickly. There are good reasons why this monicker seems appropriate too. Firstly, because his job involves putting up posters. When I worked in the North, this was a risky game. It has been widely reported that there are actually territorial ‘poster mafias’ in some areas, who believe no act seems too sadistic in the procurement of oft-specialist pop-culture promotional space. We just can’t afford the risk of Jim walking round the mean streets of Dudley, Stourbridge or Gornal without some sort of rough and ready moniker. And although he is clearly of advancing years, I reckon that with his bald head he could just about pass off as the type of old back-street roughish sort of fellow you might find in Eastenders. With a little name manipulation he is no longer a vulnerable old man, but a street-ready stalwart demanding respect. His face and nickname blend together to immunise him; not implying he's capable of inflicting much violence himself, but that behind his cheery demeanour lies a man with a dodgy past and a old-guard loyal kinship with some nasty underworld types who’d kill on his behalf in a heart-beat. Secondly, I call him Jim the Barstad he like guns and line-dancing and he plays loud authentic country music in his van, which makes being a passenger feel like you're a red-neck outlaw continually being chased by the police. And finally, although this is probably a more personal association, whenever I look at his head, I can’t help but be reminded of the last scene in Return of the Jedi when Darth Vader takes his mask off.

Anyway, as we wandered round the streets together, I questioned him about his long stint on local radio. These were the old-school days when they were DJ’s rather than presenters. He told me that through the 80’s and 90’s, he was doing shows for 6 hours a day, six days a week. I was intrigued by the tales of his radio years, and was eager to gauge his level of local celebrity. I asked if he used to do those Radio ‘Roadshow’ things that were big in the 80’s, where they’d play some records from a lorry with a stage and there’d be a host in between to work the crowd up to euphoric hysteria by giving them a chance to win a car sticker. He said he did. I asked if he was ever asked for his autograph. He said he was. I asked if any females had ever offered to fellate him. He said only old ones. I’ve given this some thought and after tallying up I have rated his fame level as 3 out of 10 (which is co-incidentally one mark lower than the town of Dudley, but only because I presume Dudley has seen a more indiscriminate willingness towards casual fellatio). Still, I’m not knocking the fella. He was certainly affable and enough to hold court with radio listeners for six hours a day. Maybe George Lamb should take heed.

Actually on second thoughts, I really hope he doesn’t. Imagine having to endure Lamb for six hours! I couldn’t think of anything worse. And lest we forget, I even say that with a mental image of Jim the Barstad’s fellatio still freshly imprinted on my mind.

Mon 18th May 2009

2009-05-19T00:25:00.002+01:00

Working life, what a drag eh? Cheer up. You can always rely on the fact that there’s someone worse off than you. If the Monday blues have hit you, remember that someone somewhere today will be earning their lucre whilst elbow deep in shit. Just think about that. You’ll be feeling ashamed of your self-indulgent musings in no time at all.

I am talking about vocational nightmares because today I met someone who worked on The Chris Moyles Radio 1 show. Naturally my instinct was to just grab her and hold her close and tell her everything will be ok, promising she’ll find relief just as soon as her cursed and wretched life is over.

For me this seemed a naturally instinctive response, because if I am unfortunate enough to hear the Chris Moyles show then within five minutes, I find myself struck by an overwhelming desire to take a cheese grater to my own genitalia just from the shamefulness of my own maleness. If such level of despair is possible in five minutes, then being subjected to that throughout your DAY-TO-DAY LIFE must be an existence so mentally torturous, it would make being a victim of Guantanamo Bay seem a reasonable leisure pursuit. But the strange thing was that the woman wasn’t depressed or anything. I’d even go as far as to say that she was even sort of happy, despite having been dealt such adversity by the cruel hand of fate. What a brave soul. Just goes to show the resilient strength of the human spirit.

I used to think I had the perfect solution to the alcohol industry. With my idea I could simultaneously reduce alcoholism and binge drinking, whilst saving the fledging pub trade. Quite simply, I’d lower the wholesale prices on beer in pubs and raise the retail prices for the supermarket and off-license traders. Better still, give the off-license trade exclusively to the pubs, to sell at pub prices. That way, more people will be able to afford to go out and drink in a more sociable setting, which at least has a degree of supervision. There’ll be less people developing alcohol problems whilst drinking uncontrollably alone at home, alcohol would be less available to minors and the pub industry would be thriving again. It seemed so simple. But then, with one off-hand remark, the broadcaster John Humphrys bought my whole theory tumbling to its knees. It was his simple observation that the programme of Chris Moyles, his more popular airtime rival, sounded a bit like a bunch of friends engaged in the kind of frivolous banter you hear in pubs.

So that’s what our pubs – the places we willingly go to and spend our leisure time money in – actually sound like? Well in that case, fuck the pub trade. Let the nation drown alone at home under a sea cheap spirits and despairing tears. Civilisation is clearly over. In fact let’s just fuck humanity. Fuck it quicker than Russell Brand would fuck a grand-daughter. Because apparently 6.79 million people listen actually listen to Moyles of their own free will. The human’s soul deserves no sympathy. It isn’t resilient at all. Turns out it’s just covered in the same shit that those hypothetical elbows were up to earlier.

Still – as our death knoll rings out over our culturally condemned lives, let us always remember one thing.

At least he wasn’t as bad as George Lamb.

Sun 17th May 2009

2009-05-18T00:15:00.003+01:00

I spend every working weekday looking forward to the work-free weekend so I can have some time just for myself. A couple of days free of obligation, doing things I want to do, rather than things I have to do. I crave for some “me” time, if you like.

But it turns out that my “me” time is actually like the mildest, most un –tantalising chicken korma ever. A bland porridge with no sugar; made with water instead of milk. Or one of those anticlimactic veggie burgers comprised of mashed potato and peas (a reference mainly for the veggoes - but aren’t those discs of non-meat emulation just the most anticlimactic culinary cop-out ever?).

When the weekend finally arrives, it’s almost like I become over-awed with all the possibilities of all the things I could do, and yet nothing I can think of doing ever seems anything other than wasteful. Like making good headway into that book I borrowed from the library, or say, watching that that film that’s been stuck on the freeview box for months, or finally cleaning those white splatters of winged-creature poo off my car (which incidentally are so gigantic it almost seems infeasible they came from a bird’s tiny anus. I am starting to hope that human’s aren’t the only living beings currently hit by an obesity crisis, because such excremental levels would otherwise imply that pterodactyls have made a return to the living world, and chose to reside in my tiny, non-descript, middle-class village).

But all of these things take an investment of seemingly unaffordable time. They just seem like a diversion from a path of greater fulfilment. And these ideas always fall short of my grandiose intent. They distract me from starting work on my first major literary work, or learning a new language, or going feral for a couple of days to experience the richness of real life outside my tiny, non-descript, middle-class village. All of which I genuinely intend to do. Just not right now. But definitely soon.

And there lies the rub. I am basically cursed by an opposing lure of frivolous tasks and leisure pursuits against bigger projects so grand they’re actually just too intimidating to tackle. And by the time I’ve finished fretting about the most beneficial usage for my free time, I realise I’ve just lost eight hours blankly staring at the “Price Drop TV” channel; and once again the day’s only achievement was the onset of a state of bored self-loathing.

Sometimes I wish there was a supervisory ‘caretaker’ who could take over the direction of my life now and again, leaving me to drift along in autopilot whist a diary of activity is imposed by an authoritative voice making all my decisions for me. Some of the more libertarian readers might argue how this would effectively eradicate the “free-will”; the beautiful essence of what it is to be human in the first place. But I disagree. Time is to be appreciated and our existence is precious. We are incomprehensibly lucky to even have our brief spell in the universe. So I reckon when someone like me comes along with a complete inability to take the reins of their own life, then surely time is better filled by any means possible rather than so haplessly frittered?

POSTSCRIPT
(...actually now I’ve had a chance to think, this entry might sound like a dark plea for the onset of schizophrenia, rather than the gentle ‘sat nav for the soul’ schlock I’d originally envisaged. Maybe it’s best we disregard everything I’ve written so far and make a fresh start tomorrow, where we can all turn a new leaf. A brand new week, where anything could happen. Yes, that sounds rather liberating. Perhaps this will be the week I’ll finally start on one of my major tasks.)

Wed 13th May 2009

2009-05-13T22:39:00.002+01:00

If I am subjected to that awful “In for the Kill” song by La Roux on the radio again, I think I may actually end up scream at a glass-shattering pitch. Not that you’d be able to notice. It’d be aurally invisible against that hackle-raising atrocity. My God, that woman’s blood-curdling, dentist’s drill of a screech! And that God-awful parping backing track! It’s the aural equivalent of a cretinous hen-party, fuelled by too much WKD. Or being half way through a rudimentary computer game and having your mum hollering up the stairs to tell you your chicken kievs are ready. That is not so much my idea of a dizzying pop thrill, so much as a bloody flustering nightmare.

Is it just me? Am I just getting old? Surely not. I was always at the very thudding pulse of popular culture. You''d have thought I'd still be at least little bit hip with the kids. But others must actually really like that La Roux din, as I believe the song is currently residing at number 2 of the hit parade. So maybe popular culture has moved on without me? Well – y’know what kids? You can keep all your vacuous nonsense. From this point I am positively vacating your space. If anyone wants me, I’m off to buy up all of Del Amitri’s back catalogue. What’s that? You’ve never heard of them? Well, they’re like an more left-field version of Scouting For Girls. From the 80’s. And no, they’re not very cool, or exciting. Not even ironically so. But at least they offer some solace from you and your bloody ringtone charts!

Mon 11th May 2009

2009-05-11T23:17:00.002+01:00

I can see the numbers of entries per day gradually slipping as each month passes. I need to get back into the swing of things as I have not been writing much of late. I hope this entry will bring a new bout of motivation. I need to get back in the saddle on my metaphorical horse. In theory, this should be made rather easy for me, as my name actually means “lover of horses” in Ancient Greek. Straight up. That’s absolutely true; and must be so, as it is listed on the unquestionable oracle of all truths that is Wikipedia.

But this just proves what little relevance a name actually has. I’m actually rather ambivalent towards horses. And it’s not exactly much to be proud of when you think in terms of some of the other names from ancient Greece. It’s certainly more humble than say, Hercules, who slew loads of supposedly infallible monsters and impregnated loads of women. Or Icarus, as you’ll remember had the ingenuity to make them feather wings which enabled him to fly. Even Sisyphus had that big boulder to eternally roll around, which although seems a tedious and pointless life plan, would have at least assured him some nice firm pecks and biceps. But you can’t help wondering how on Earth the original Greek Philip earned his moniker? Presumably he was so dull, that the most significant thing his contemporaries could say to describe him as “that chap... you know him... that one who hangs round the stables. Yeah course you know him... he really loves horses”. How tragic it is that this is the only thing that is ever mentioned about old Philip. Nothing more, nothing less.

And thinking about it, the term ‘lover’ is so vague it’s almost unsettling. Exactly how much did he love horses? Did it ever spill over into something more sinister? I have scoured the internet high and low and it is never really established. I am glad I only have my metaphorical horse, with whom I must once again stress, I’ve a totally platonic relationship with. I’ve absolutely nothing to feel guilty about (although with the benefit of hindsight, the introduction to this older post now seems somewhat ill-advised).

So in short, I have a shit name, which may or may not have parallels to be drawn with Peter Schaffer’s “Equus”. But in fairness when it comes to other potential Ancient Greek names, I suppose I have come off rather lightly. A quick glance through some of the others shows names, such as:-

Jason – (no thanks).

Hercules – (too grandiose).

Sisyphus – (well that sounds too much like the name of a certain sexually transmitted disease NOT to be adopted for playground usage).

And of course, the less said about Oedipus the better.

Sun 3rd May 2009

2009-05-05T21:33:00.000+01:00

Today was the last game of the football season for our home team, Wolverhampton Wanderers. They have won the league this year and are due to be promoted to the premiership, so I joined my friends for a post-match celebratory drink in the town.

Given my documented anti-football stance, you would imagine that voluntarily placing myself in such close proximity of hollering, swollen orange bellies exhaling the stale aroma of cheap burger van onions, Stella Artois and ill-conceived reactionary opinions, would be the last thing on my agenda. But if anyone deserves to bask in the reflected glory of the team’s success it’s definitely me. Just because I didn’t go to any games or even proclaim to have the slightest care about any of the scores, doesn’t mean I haven’t made my own investments in the football industry. I’ll have you know, I used to work at the team’s ground when I was a student, doing torturous 14 hour washing up shifts. So don’t try and tell me about the hard life of the football fan. I’ve quite literally invested more sweat into the team than any of them so-called supporters - which is quite an achievement when you think about their disgusting, clammy, pasty-bloated faces.

Even now, years later, I am still obliged to suffer the hardships and emotional journey that the football season entails. Just think about all those countless Saturday nights in pubs, spoiled by my friends endlessly crapping on about “today’s game” – a 90 minute affair, they can somehow stretch to over three hours of analysis – and their tedious waffle left me longing for something more humane to happen; like a terrorist explosion strong enough to rip my eardrums out.

Think about all those frustrating match day traffic queues and parking problems in the City Centre I’ve been forced to endure, just because I’m an innocent bystander who doesn’t happen to be au fait with the fixtures list? Think about the inconveniences I’ve suffered at the hands of TV scheduling changes, made to accommodate the extension of a 0-0 draw? (A particularly perplexing irritation - as if football wasn’t dull enough, they cancel programmes to extend the most tedious games of all. We might as well be watching looping camera footage of Gary Lineker and his pals pissing all over the latest copy of the Radio Times – which would at least have some sort of concise metaphorical narrative value).

So yes - I reckon I truly deserved my place in the festivities. This was neither glory-hunting nor bandwagon jumping. It was my own private celebration. And the end of the ever-tedious football season is always worth raising a glass to.

Cheers!

Wed 29th April 2009

2009-04-29T21:59:00.002+01:00

On extremely rare occasions, we have touring artistes who insist on closing all the doors around the auditorium, banishing all staff from entering the room with a signs along the lines of “Soundcheck in progress – No entry”. I haven’t a problem with this per se, as the only inconvenience to me is that it takes longer to walk the lengths of the corridors around the auditorium in order to get to the toilet. It’s just that I don’t understand why it’s such a big deal. In fact it just seems rude to banish venue staff, who spent hours of their efforts helping your show to happen in the first place, from their own place of work.

Insisting everyone leaves just to play a song or two (which is just the job of a professional musician after all), seems silly when one remembers the same room will be populated with over a thousand people in a couple of hours time. And like I say – musicians are only there to do a job, in the same way that we are only there to do a job. If I insisted that colleagues left the room before I’d be willing to send an email, I wouldn’t imagine myself in employment for very long. And if I walked in to someone else’s workplace and tried to send everyone out so I could send an email on one of their computers, I’d fully expect to be escorted off the premises. But some musicians think they’ve a right to practise double standards. And such demands just make them look arrogant; like they’re imposing some sort of “legendary” status upon themselves. But ironically, it is only ever non-legendary artistes who make such insistences; the type of act that you’d rather gouge your own ears out than have to hear them play their instruments irrespective of how many people are in a room.

And that’s another problem - a closed door with a sign stuck does not tend to mask the noise of a theatre-auditorium sized amplification unit. If you work in the same building, you’ve no choice but to be subjected to their cacophonies! From my office, I can still hear every note being played. And this is often rather to my chagrin, since I have to make phone calls over that bloody row, for God sake.

When they’ve finished their soundcheck, maybe I should take my mobile phone and stand just outside their dressing room, talking really really loudly. See how THEY like it.

Wed 22nd April 2009

2009-04-25T14:06:00.013+01:00

Had you a spare £19.50, you could have bought a ticket to see “The Best of British Mediumship” tonight, which featured the psychics Colin Fry and T.J. Higgs (the latter of whom, is of course not to be confused with the bargain basement retailer, T.J. Hughes; and to assist you with this distinction, here is a photo of TJ Higgs standing with her colleague, Colin Fry):-

And here is a photo from the Maidstone branch of the retailer T.J. Hughes:-

Another distinction is that for £19.50, TJ Hughes can provide you with a fair bit of clothing and/or electrical goods; which seems much better value than paying £19.50 to witness T.J. Higgs exploiting the grief of the bereaved. I just don’t get it. How on Earth do these psychics get away with such obvious fraudulence in the first place, never mind getting paid such huge sums of money for it? It beggars belief that people will part with twenty quid, just to be told the same old schpiel; usually along the lines of: “Your mother says she still loves you, thinks Alan is a good man at heart and wants you to carry on living in the cottage”. The way I see it, either these ‘psychics’ are simply con-artists - and therefore should be locked up, just like any other criminal would be. Or they truly believe that they have the gift of talking to the dead - in which case they should be locked up, just like any other clearly insane person would be.

But you have to hand it to Colin Fry and T.J. Hughes – they are at the top of their game. This show, after all, is “The Best of British Mediumship”, so they cannot simply just be dismissed as exploitative fraudsters, or deluded mentalists. Of course not – that would be a highly unfair disservice. These people are the BEST exploitative fraudsters and/or deluded mentalists in the whole country! They are masters of the fraudulent and/or deluded trade.

And that’s not all. Judging by their photos, they are also blessed with the accolade of being the most owl-like entertainers in the whole of the showbiz world.

Take a look for yourself:-

A clever little owl

Colin Fry

'Nanny' from the 80's children's cartoon

series, "Count Duckula"

TJ Hughes

Mon 20th April 2009

2009-04-22T23:37:00.001+01:00

My expired car park pass means that to get to work, I now have to face extortionate parking fees. Or I could take the bus in to town; doing my bit for my bank balance, the local transport economy, the environment and the world’s oil supplies. Which would be nice in theory. But who wants to have to get up earlier and traipse through whatever the British weather throws at you, just to be cramped into a herd of faces that are not driving just cos they’re too old? Or cos they’re too young. Or – worse still – cos they’re too working class. Not me. Too many training shoes, ‘iPods’ noise spillages and small change transactions for my liking.

However I kind of met my good intentions half-way today, easing myself into a greener existence by car-pooling my way to work, then catching the bus home. But I found it strange experience waiting at the stop to get home. I was flooded with feelings of nostalgia. This was the same bus stop I used to wait at as a young teenager. In the same town as when I was a teenager. Heading back to the same home I lived at as a teenager. The last time I was doing this regularly, there was time to kill by standing at bus stops. Life was just starting. There were many paths to take laid out in front, leading in all sorts of different directions; all mine for the choosing. But here I was, back again. In my home town which seemed virtually the same, only a bit more decayed. Wearing the same face which was virtually the same, only a bit more decayed. Fifteen years on, and following years of carving a new life through different cities, different jobs, different homes and different unsuccessful relationships, I have found myself back here again, waiting at this same damn bus stop, to get back to my parent’s home, where I find myself living again in a quiet suburban village. It is amazing how quick nostalgia morphs into melancholy. And yes, you did read that bit correctly. I am a 31 year old man living with his dad. The ultimate status symbol of a sad, stagnated existence.

In fairness, it was my own decision to move back in with my dad. But there were pressures at the time and since my parents’ divorce, it seemed more sensible and noble to financially assist my own dad with rent rather my last landlord. I also thought that living there as an adult might be a bit like Frasier, with two optimistic bachelors sharing a house and making inter-generational wry comments about each other. But in practise, it is more like Steptoe and Son; with two tragic figures stomping around a house, swearing at each other. Whilst wearing long-johns.

Eventually the bus arrived. It cost £1.80, which would make it £3.60 a day were I to regularly travel both ways. In future I have decided to pay the extra 90p to cover the £4.50 car park charge; if only to shield and anaesthetise me from having to address any further issues like the ones bought up today. The way I see it, that’s pretty good value. It’s sort of thing usually costs me a tenner in the pub.

Sun 19th April 2009

2009-04-19T22:37:00.000+01:00

I spent the journey to mother’s staring into a horse’s anus. I was stuck behind a horse wagon and always feel a bit nervy about overtaking long vehicles.

When I eventually arrived, we went for another Sunday lunch (my mother and I, I mean – not the horse obviously). Remarkable meal it was too. Although I’m disappointed to note that the pork and crackling I ordered was actually devoid of any of the crackling which had clearly been listed as a part of the dish. Similarly my mother’s turkey and stuffing was devoid of any stuffing.

Mother wished to complain to the waitress about these glaring omissions, but I did not deem such ancillary items worth causing a scene about. Instead I made my protest by rejecting the pudding menu and influencing mother to do the same. This kind of passive/aggressive act is much better than lodging real complaints. Although they may believe they have got away with their negligence, the owners are blissfully unaware that their curmudgeonly refusal of the ancillary (but near essential) items had actually cost them £7 in desserts. And by not being vocal about our chagrin, mother & I have probably safeguarded any meal revisions from being spat upon.

Mother also cut my hair today. I am rather grateful she is both my mother and a hairdresser, as this makes her licensed to make a personal mention that my hair is getting too long. Under my hapless supervision, my sideburns have also been allowed to spread like an untamed path of weeds. I imagine you will be able to tell when mother has passed on, as you will probably see me wondering the streets like some sort of homeless vagrant. But for now I am lucky – free of the burdening necessity of self-awareness.

“Would you like anything doing to your fizzog?” she asked, after completing the craft my latest recede denial.

“If you could make it look handsome, that would be great” I joked, under the pretence of unawareness that she was referring to my chops.

“Don’t say that!” she protested. She seemed to rally against my self-deprecating sense of humour.

“Anyway”, she added, “You are beautiful on the inside, and that’s all that counts!”

Well thank you very much mother. Thanks for spoiling your unconditional motherly role of filling me with love and confidence, with all that “beautiful on the inside” schpeel. So even you believe you’ve sprung a grotesquely hideous mess from within your loins do you? I know I am 31 and you have not been introduced to many girlfriends of late (any girlfriends of late), but does that really confine us to the compensatory last-chance saloon of the “at least being beautiful on the inside?” schtick. Well cheers for that. If you’re going to say something politely vacuous, you might as well have said I was really handsome. Why not use your choice of insincere clichés to humour my sense of self properly?

And in any case, the half-hearted claim you actually opted for can’t possibly be true! I am well aware my insides are far from beautiful ,given the much documented rotten and bloody state of my bowel. What barbed compliments your have torn me with! And just how ugly do you consider me to be in any case? How visually pleasing am I in relation to, say, the horse’s anus I’d followed earlier?

That same horse’s anus I had to endure for about ten miles, just to visit you and your backhanded insults in the first place!

Mon 13th April 2009

2009-04-19T22:35:00.000+01:00

In an attempt to fully appreciate the spate of nice weather we’ve been having I went for a nice long walk. There is something liberating about having a really long walk, with nothing but an MP3 player for company. I headed through a pleasant wooded area on the outskirts of our village, before cutting through on to the canals.

As I stepped on the towpath, a barge was travelling alongside. I remembered I was still wearing my earphones and didn’t want to appear ignorant, so I took one of the plugs out. I looked at the driver and gave him a puffy-cheeked smile and raised my eyes to him at acknowledgement. The man pleasantly reciprocated with a nod and mumbled a quick “Alright?” It was a brief exchange between two strangers both enjoying the solitude of nature on a beautiful day. I pressed on with my journey.

I like barges. It is nice when they are moored up and you can look at the spritely names and imagine what it is like to live inside. But if there is one thing I am less keen on about barges, it is that they travel precisely at walking speed. Because after about half a mile, we were still side-by-side. And the driver & I kept catching each other’s eyes, caught in a cycle of occasional acknowledging glances. And even though neither of us seemed particularly keen to instigate a proper conversation, it would have felt rude just to put my earphones back in.

We continued to ignore each other’s presence bar a few cursory glances, until eventually I couldn’t stand the awkwardness any longer. I subtly picked up my walking pace, whilst being carefully conscious not to appear like I’d burst into some sort of spontaneously bizarre power walk. Whoever said it’s nice and relaxing to get out into the country?

Sun 12th April 2009

2009-04-14T02:45:00.001+01:00

Started to feel a bit better today (thanks for asking). I don’t feel totally back to normal, but I was certainly well enough to take to the canals for a 20 mile bike ride, and abuse my temperamental belly with some delicious “Cadbury’s Creme Egg” ice cream. I didn’t get any Easter eggs, so this themed ice-cream was the closest thing to a taste of resurrected Christ this year (though I bet Deidre Barlow would have ensured my cupboards were well furnished with such seasonal treats). Nevertheless I cannot recommend Creme Egg ice cream enough. It is second only to the new Bournville bars with bits of orange peel stuck in them; which I can assure you taste a lot better than language has allowed me to describe here. Don’t get me wrong, I also really like regular Bournvilles, but generally find myself to be sated after 4 squares. With the orange stuff, I can easily devour more than that – sometimes even as much as 6 or 7 squares in a single sitting! I’m not joking either. I probably need to pull the reigns in a bit before I find myself on the rocky path to a real-life Alan Partridge-esque breakdown.

After the epic bike ride, I awarded myself with a pub lunch. I opted for “Hunter’s Chicken” - a chicken wrapped in slices of bacon. I am unsure as to why a chicken wrapped in bacon is called Hunter’s Chicken. Since the hunting of meat is the very cornerstone of the hunter’s profession, you’d think that if they are going out for a meal they’d probably prefer to try something a bit different, maybe a nice salmon fishcake or something.

Hunter’s chicken... What sort of hunter just goes after standard farmyard animals? Surely farmers already have that corner of the market sewn up? A real hunter worth his salt should present something more daring, like deer steak wrapped in a coat of bear’s fu

Sat 11th April 2009

2009-04-14T00:03:00.003+01:00

Ever since I started my current job, I have not had a single day off through sickness. I have maintained this achievement through four years of employment. And this track record currently shows no signs of slowing either. Mainly cos I only seem to be ill when I am off work anyway. Like today. I am lying bed-bound with the turmoil-ridden stomach which broke out last night.

It is truly sod’s law that I am ill on the bank holiday break I have been looking forward to for weeks. It is sod’s law that we are having the brightest and warmest weather of the year so far when I am stuck in bed clutching my stomach, whilst beads of sweat glitter my body. It is sod’s law that my stomach is so incapable of accepting any content on my pre-arranged pub night. And it’ll be sod’s law when I find myself out of bog paper after yet another unprompted hot geyser erupts from my rear end.

It also seems like sod’s law that my last illness also befell me on Christmas Eve, yet another calendar holiday. I am starting to believe that maybe Jesus is punishing me for my atheist stance, by making me ill exclusively on his religious festival dates. Still, at least I got to do some reading, and when I felt intellectually sated, I had good “illness excuses” to watch some bubblegum television. It looks like Ken Barlow is looking further afield than his own wife in the Coronation Street omnibus; whilst his son Peter cannot seem to find much luck in the love department. “When am I going to find my Deidre?” he asks his father. I couldn’t empathise with his simple, honest plea enough; which arguably transcended humble soap dialogue to give a broader metaphor for the existential crisis of all human life. In a way I suppose we are all looking for our Deidre. We all want someone who is always there for us. We all want a dependable soul to forever quench our lonely existence. We all want someone to greet us when we arrive home. We all want someone to pass the time with on a longstanding contractual basis. Preferably someone who has a 40 a day gravel-pit voice and a neck which resembles a small muddy country track only frequented by a series of heavy four wheel drive vehicles. I know that’s what I’m looking for. She may not be much to look at, or even listen to, or smell (given the amount she seems to smoke per episode); but she’s at least the sort of woman who would ensure my toilet paper supplies are fully stocked. And at this moment in time, that’s the prime quality I’d be settle for in anyone.

Fri 10th April 2009

2009-04-13T21:05:00.002+01:00

Happy Good Friday everyone! Today I witnessed the consequences of a sacrifice; a timely sacrifice that was made for the benefit mankind. Although when I say “mankind”, I am more specifically referring to “the residents of our village” (which might as well technically count as the encompassing of all mankind, given the narrow scope of my personal inter-social existence). And when I say “sacrifice”, I am referring to the slaughter of porcine. Rest assured, contrary to the belief of some folk, our small village is not some irregular place of weird Pagan acts. I was merely at my mate’s book shop (incidentally a brilliant place with an ace stock of cheap books, which are also accessible on line from here), bearing witness to a meat delivery at the butcher next door.

A whole pig was being carried in by the two drivers. My friend asked whether it troubled me that the very same pig was probably ambling around happily on a local farm probably less than 2 days ago. This is the sort of thing people like to ask an ex-vegetarian for some reason. I guess it’s to see if they are able to arouse any sense of carnivore guilt and whether it can play on my conscience enough to drive me back into a Quorn-fed existence. But these comments are futile. Why would I be so naive as to disregard how a living animal becomes a dinner? Also, why was the fact the pig was probably frolicking with his piggy mates two days ago supposed to have any emotional leverage? What am I supposed to prefer? If a dead pig being carried into a butchers to be separated, sold and consumed, I’d rather it was alive a couple of days ago than it being delivered after a month long grieving period afforded to its piggy contemporaries. On the other end of the spectrum, I would rather it be ready killed when carried into the butchers, rather than hearing it’s curdling squeals through the walls as I’m trying to leaf through a shelf of literary gems.

Later in the evening, I came over with a slightly dicky tummy which forced me to stay in, when I really wanted to be out with my friends celebrating the bank holiday. Maybe this is some sort of irony, satirically bought on by the symbolism of a rotting pig carcass?

Thu 9th April 2009

2009-04-12T10:23:00.002+01:00

Last day of work for five whole days! Thank you baby Jesus for dying so that mankind can have a few days off. All year round we think about the little jobs we have promised to get around at some point; and thanks to you there’s a few days to fully procrastinate about them at punishing length.

As this was officially the last working day before the Easter holidays, we were allowed to bring games in. Ok, that’s a lie - we weren’t allowed to bring games in. Sadly ‘the man’ and the right-on brigade have teamed up together and stopped that kind of pre-holiday fun, because the modern kill-joys do not consider it a constructive use of time (or they might just consider it inappropriate on the grounds that I’m a 31 year old man). But we did make our own kind of light-hearted office-based fun, which was possibly one-step lower in the maturity stakes than a quick game of classroom ‘Junior Dingbats’. It consisted of sending various puerile SMS messages to each other’s desk-phones. I know on paper this doesn’t exactly sound like a barrel of laughs, but there is something I find genuinely amusing about the emotionless, mechanistic voice which reads text messages through the landline receiver. It has perfect diction of individual words, but an ill-fitting expression of the sentences as a whole. Dialogue-wise, the whole thing is probably best described as sounding like Moira Stewart doing an impression of Borat.

And there’s something genuinely quite sinister about it too. If you know any very young or very old relatives who are going to be on their own over the holidays and who do not have a savvy grasp of modern phone technology, why not text something along the lines of “Tonight I plan to slice your neck open, hang you upside down and watch your guts spill out” to their landline? Thanks to Moira’s chilling delivery, they’ll be absolutely terrified. It’ll be hilarious! The more vulnerable the recipient, the better.

So there’s one activity for your Easter break. You can have that for free. But should you need other ways to procrastinate your way out of the impending odd jobs, I’m afraid you’ll just have to think of them yourself.

Wed 8th April 2009

2009-04-12T10:22:00.000+01:00

I saw a bit of ‘The Passion’ on TV. I found it to be a rather oddly titled series; as despite what is implied, there was very little salacious about its content at all. It was mainly just a load of beardy blokes with regional accents talking about God and stuff, then one of them ends up getting murdered. Don’t bother getting your hopes built up when the prostitute appears either. As I said, nothing even remotely arousing happens in the whole programme. Well, almost nothing. There is a kiss between two men who confusingly have similar sounding names. But the scene doesn’t seem particularly erotic (not that I am an authority on what whether a kiss between two men could be considered erotic or anything. I am not familiar with this type of thing. And even if I were, I’d probably just have as much luck as a homosexual man as I do as a heterosexual, given my granary-bap arse, and worst still, my irritable bowel and consequently putridly un-tempting state of my anal innards. The one thing that can be said about me is how I am not prejudiced - I can repulse people indiscriminately of their sexual persuasion).

Yes – it’s all pretty flaccid stuff. Though having said this, if you find pleasure in sadomasochistic acts, then there’s a chance you might enjoy the ending; which is full of torture and cruelty. But then if this sort of thing arouses you, you’re clearly a sicko, and I would seriously question whether I wish to hear from you. I only enjoy sexual acts that are completely conventional, thank you very much. I would not wish to be flogged and hung on a cross.

Unless it the only thing on offer.

Tue 7th April 2009

2009-04-08T23:30:00.003+01:00

As I sit here typing this, I keep catching the reflection of my own face in the screen. Look, there it is again. My own stupid face.

It is amazing how irritating I find this face. Not in a Piers-Morgan-punchable kind of way. It is more in annoyance that every charming facial feature I have been blessed with seems to have been accompanied by some ghastly defect. Take my eyes for example. At first I see these kind of endearing large puppy-dog globes, full of dreamy wonder. But then as a kind of counter-balancing retribution, I also have these burdening dark sags underneath which look like someone has taken the weight of the world off their shoulders, slung them into 2 big bags, then stapled them right under my eye-sockets. For every quality I see in my features, there always seems to be a corresponding flaw. I literally might as well just replace my own head with a big cardboard cut-out of the yin and yang symbol.

Take my hair too. I was blessed with a sea of thick, shiny locks. But the tide now seems to going out, and the dry barren wasteland beneath is creeping into view at an alarming rate. There was a time when my hair would just do its job of just hanging their all undemanding of any care or attention or anything. But now I am receeding, I have to bother being all self aware about it. There’s certain looks I simply can’t pull-off anymore. For starters the effortless bushy unkempt indie-kid style is a thing of the past. If my hair hits the lengths it was in the 90’s, limp wiry strands just hang unconvincingly down the dome of my head. It’s the equivalent of hugging a widescreen telly from behind to try and shield the local vicar from seeing a sex-scene. Three days without a wash, and with the additional greasiness it suddenly becomes the very stereotype of how the media might portray the image of a paedophile staring through the school gates. If anything, the dark circles on my eyes would only compliment this style. But sadly paedophile chic is not a very popular look at the moment.

I am not yet actually bald, but like I say, I need to show a degree of self-awareness about what I can and can’t pull off. I am just ‘gone’ enough to be aware that the number of styles I can model are steadily on the decline. I need to be prepared that perhaps one day whatever style I opt for will simply just be a vane pretension of denial; and then I’ll have no choice but to shave the remainder away.

I’d argue that in many ways being a receding man is probably worse than just being downright bald. Proper baldies have at least got past watching and worrying as their forehead coverage ebbs away. It’s like they got to point, shrugged their shoulders and just accepted that they’re better off slapped than fretting. I’ve even seen some of them seem really at ease about their lack of follicles. Like the baldies at festivals who unashamedly slap exaggerated dollops sun tan lotion over their head in full public view, and jovially apply it, as if it was Brasso or something.

But at the moment I am in standing in the middle of a confused, balding abyss, not quite knowing whether the recede intends to continue or not. If it stops now, I just might get away with a few shorter-on-top styles for years to come. If it continues I will have to know when to face facts and join the baldies for good. Either way, this summer it might be good idea to start pricing up the sun tan lotions, you know, just in case.

Mon 6th April 2009

2009-04-07T00:05:00.000+01:00

Today a few friends and I watched one of them league football matches on the telly round someone’s house. This is something I do generally every five or six years, mainly to remind myself why I only watch football every five or six years. For those who may be unfamiliar with the football, it also has different monickers like soccer and ‘footie’, and is a game in which a ball is kicked up and down the field in the name of regional patriotism, by people who are generally not from the place they’re supposed to be representing.

I am not a particularly big fan of football. It seems to antagonise the people who watch it. If you were to make a tape recording of people watching a football game with the tv turned down, it would generally consist of tutting, whinging and in some cases, the loud expression of expletives. Maybe this just happens because, at the general behest of the people I am with, I always seem to wind up watching Wolves matches. But the thought of spending my leisure time, deliberately choosing to do something that makes me feel annoyance is not something I would willingly chose to do. What’d be the point in this? For me, that’d just be like a busman’s holiday. Not that football matches have ever evoked such intensity of emotion in me personally. I just generally tend to sit watching the ball being kicked about like a dispassionate observer. This doesn’t just explain my experiences as a spectator, but as a kid actually partaking in PE football matches too. So I suppose I just don’t really have any empathy with the game. Don’t get me wrong, I would rather the Wolves had won, in order to cohese the general social atmosphere with my friends. But I certainly didn’t feel empathy with the team for having lost 2-0. The nearest I got to feeling any empathy, was on the 90th minute when one of the commentators announced they had “3 minutes injury time to be endured.”

But one thing I do believe is that as uninterested as I am, I could be some sort of bad omen, a curse for my home team. I’m not kidding either. Whenever I happen to see one of their matches, they always seem to lose. Now although this sounds a coded, snide way of saying Wolves are rubbish; I know this cannot be a true statement as they’re currently top of the league. So why would they lose this match, just like they lost the last one I accidently happened to catch in 2003? Or the one before in 1997? Or the one before that in 1991? What are the odds that they would lose all those matches, even at a time when they seem to be in a winning streak? There is no other explanation – I bring bad vibes to footballers.

It may surprise you to learn that about 12 years ago, I actually used to be employed by Wolverhampton Wanders Football Club. I used to wash up plates for rich businessmen who felt they could only properly enjoy a football match whilst seated behind a glass window, eating a big three-course meal. Sometimes I had to take the kitchen rubbish out in a little trolley and wheel it to the big skips the other side of the ground. In a strange way, this was usually a shift highlight because at least you got to get out of the windowless perpetual steam-hole of the kitchen for a few minutes. But it was simultaneously rather demeaning, having to trundle through the gaggle of supporters and autograph hunters, wearing a blue overall while pushing a trolley of stinking rubbish.

I remember one day, I had made it through the fans only to be faced by a player I would later learn to be called Neil Emblen or something. He had just burst through the player’s lounge exit, all set with his autograph signing pen, to dive into a sea of adulation of the fans. The only thing blocking the player from the fans and the fans from the player, was me and my rubbish trolley. I headed left to get around him. But at the same time, he headed right and I had to halt sharply to stop from running over his toes with my trolley. Then I pushed my trolley to the right, but at the same time he walked toward his left, and we were both stopped in our tracks again. The same thing happened a third time. By now it was just embarrassing.

I don’t know if it was just co-incidence, but the next week Neil Emblen had left the team. Had the manager seen the sorry spectacle of the player’s inability to even get round the boy who washed plates and decided to dismiss him? Sadly we’ll never know.

But just maybe, the curse has lived on.

Sun 5th April 2009

2009-04-05T23:01:00.002+01:00

Today I went to ‘Go Ape’, a simian-themed obstacle course which takes place 40-feet up in a forest. Kitted out with a harness, pulley and caribana, you traverse ladders, walkways, bridges and then shoot down long zip slides. You get a half-hour training course where there’s a thorough regard for safety. And if you’re thinking of going yourself, let me re-assure you the staff are very conscientious about safety; please don’t allow the fact that they’re not even able to spell the basic and fundamentally operative word ‘safety’ correctly on their company website disconcert you. The ‘saftey’ procedures they have in place are just as good. Although if you are of easily disconcerted temperament, then Go Ape is probably an experience best avoided. Personally I found the experience of being 40-foot high in the trees to traverse ladders, walkways, bridges and zip slides using only a harness, pulley and caribana to prevent you from falling to certain death - a disconcerting experience to say the least. In fact, having typed the word ‘caribana’, I have just noticed that my computer has drawn red squiggly line underneath it. That I have effectively had my life in the hands of something which my comprehensive spell-checker has never even heard of, is a even tad disconcerting in itself!

I am not usually bothered by thrills and spills and ‘white knuckle’ rides and the like, but kidding aside, I must admit I felt genuinely fearful. I suppose it might be something to do with having responsibility for your own safety. At least with theme park and fairground rides, you get strapped in, thrown about a bit then let off. With Go Ape, there are no instructors following you round, you have to attach the hooks (or ‘caribanas’ if you want to use the lingo) yourself, ensuring they are strapped to the each wire properly. This is not the easiest thing to do with a stinking hangover, but potentially fatal should you make a mistake. I shouldn’t really have been so worried. After all, there were even children partaking. I even overheard one lad of about 12 years old, whining to his mother about the hold up; getting genuinely impatient for the next life-risking death slide into a vertigo-inducing abyss (as he waited for me to check I’d attached my harness properly for the 512th time). But the little brat failed to appreciate my apprehension to take a literal leap of faith in my own safety preparation. It was easy for him, the horrible little git – at least he had his mom and dad on hand to check he was always attached properly.

So there – I admit it. I was scared. And the main reason I was scared must have been because I didn’t like taking responsibility for my own life. I would rather trust my own safety in the hands of some minimum wage students who are wondering how long it is till-clocking off time whilst strapping you in to the latest theme park ride and have no emotional attachment or investment to you at all, than I would in myself. What subconscious implications does this have on the way that my mind must live and work on a day-to-day basis? Is there a sadder revelation, than discovering at the core, I am a man who is effectively frightened to take responsibility for his own life? Well is there?

In real terms, yes there probably is. But then I’d probably have to strap a parachute to my back and hurl myself out of the door of a plane to find out what it might be. In what strange ways we willingly spend our leisure time!

Sat 4th April 2009

2009-04-05T20:38:00.002+01:00

Continuing with the rather impressive health regime, I went on a 20 mile bike ride with my Dad. Quite early on in the journey he found a postman’s post bag full of letters in the middle of the road, and felt obliged to pick it up so the lost mail may be returned to the post office on Monday. This meant he had to lug it round with him, with the bag balanced precariously on his handlebars; which seems an inconvenience to say the least. Such is the curse of the Good Samaritan. The worst part is that he goes to work before the Post Office opens and doesn’t get back till after it closed. So I will have to return it for him, and thus take the credit for all his bag-carrying efforts.

My Dad didn’t seem to mind, he just seemed preoccupied with pride about the length of the journey we had managed. After we finished he even said he felt “as fit as a Butcher’s Dog”. Is that a popular saying, or is it just a regional one that is spoken in our village? I’ve only ever heard it once before, and that was when the neighbour from three doors down once told me that I similarly looked “as fit as a butcher’s dog.” Having heard my Dad use it in such a self-congratulatory context, at least I now feel assured it is a phrase of politeness. Assumedly it implies that a butcher’s dog is healthy because it gets to eat prime cuts of meat. But I remember feeling unsure of the intent when my neighbour said it to me. It doesn’t necessarily sound like a compliment. I’d argue that when assessing the fitness of a butcher’s dog relies on context to a certain degree. Is the butcher a successful businessman who manages to sell a great percentage of his stock onto his patrons? If he is not, then surely a Butcher’s Dog risks being over-fed on all the left-overs. In which case my neighbour would be implying I am obese. Conversely, if butcher the butcher has amazing business prowess then presumably the only stock left will be the stuff that is of too low quality to be sold on to customers and would otherwise need to be discarded. In which case, the poor dog would be at perpetual risk of food poisoning from rancid meat. In my experience, anyone with food poisoning generally tends to look of ill-health. Like I say, context is everything. Surely we need to learn about the butcher before we can make assumptive assess about how fit his dog is?

Putting the canine of a food retailer aside, I do feel genuinely better for all of the exercise I’ve accomplished this week. I have easily surpassed my 2000 calorie target. It is just a shame I had to spoil all this good work by going out last night and drinking my own weight in Guinness. That is the reason this blog has been posted so late. In a nutshell, I got so blind drunk I was unable to make an entry. And not for the first time; as many of my exes would probably testify (hur hur).

(I should probably apologise for finishing with such a lazy and vulgar innuendo. But I am too worn out to bother deleting it now).

Fri 3rd April 2009

2009-04-04T09:42:00.002+01:00

After Monday’s towel fiasco, my gym regime has been going really well. I have managed to do some exercise every other weekday so far. My target is to burn 2000 calories per week (whilst exercising that is of course – not just simply to lose 2000 calories per week all-in. I am not setting 2000 calories a week as some sort of limit in which to carry out all of my weekly tasks. That’d be ridiculous. Otherwise I probably wouldn’t be typing this now, for risk of the activity taking me too far over my limit. Although it might be an interesting experiment to find out whether obesity, fatigue or boredom killed me first).

So far this week I have done 1700 cals, so just another 300 to hit my target. I hope I will stick to this regime. As you will know, I am a miser. It is a constant on-going concern that I am getting good value from my monthly gym membership fee of £28. If I can manage 2000 calories a week, that is roughly £1 for every 71.4 calories, which is great value for money!

Evidently there is only one more thing important to me than my health, and that is the health of my bank balance.

Thu 2nd April 2008

2009-04-03T00:33:00.002+01:00

Working in the cut n’ thrust of the music industry can certainly make for an exciting life. You never know what’s round the corner. For all I know, at some point this year I could be rubbing shoulders with Radiohead. Obviously when I use the phrase ‘rubbing shoulders’, I am not implying that in a literal sense. I doubt very much that the joint Radiohead & Days of Enlightenment Massage Parlour partnership will come into fruition anytime soon. No matter how many times I propose the idea, they just keep ignoring my emails. Some people millionaire rockstars are just plain rude.

However do not let me delude you. Such moments of such high-profile glamour are few and far between. For instance, on a more typical day like today, I will get offered bands like Five Star. They were a British pop band from the eighties, comprised of brothers and sisters. Although they had quite a few successful singles and albums, you may very well be unfamiliar with them. And this is the precise reason I am likely to opt against booking them. I’m not sure many people would want to come to see Five Star nowadays. Not even two-fifths of the band even wish to see Five Star anymore; as according to their Wikipedia entry there are only three of them now. Strictly speaking they should probably rename themselves Three Star. But then, from an image-preserving point of view, this would appear like there had been a decline in quality. It is an awkward name to compromise on and one can certainly understand why it is best not to tamper with the conceptual ‘star-rating’ system. Especially when embarking upon a season performing at Butlins. Which apparently, they have recently done.

It may seem easy to pour derision on the fact the band have been playing Butlins, but surely there are worse venues in the world. Take Kiki Dee & Carmelo Luggeri for instance. This was another show I was offered today.

You may remember Kiki Dee as being Elton John’s sidekick on the Number 1 single, “Don’t Go Breaking My Heart”, whilst Carmello has performed and recorded with a wide variety of artists including Andy Williams, Paul Rogers, Kenny Jones, Phil 'Animal' Taylor (from Motorhead I must stress, not the darts player), Chris Rea and Ralph McTell. Yet according to their tour page, they are scheduled to play the Maidstone Pizza Express.

Now, I cannot confess to ever having been to the Maidstone Pizza Express. For all I know, it could be a very nice venue, in which pizzas play a very small role in the proceedings. Or it could be awful; like some small late night take-away in which Kiki attempts to warble to late night drunken revellers from the other side of the counter. I simply don’t know. But I’ve no reason to wish any malice or ill regard. It might have a really good production and hospitality set-up; a nice PA system, a first class lighting rig, some nice dressing rooms; like I say, I am no authority on the place so I couldn’t tell you what it’s like. Although I suspect I know what the venue’s hospitality catering might consist of.

May I emphasise again, it is not my intention to pour scorn or derision on these careers. In any case, I am in no position even if I wanted to. Five Star may not be threatening the hit parade much nowadays, but it mustn’t be forgotten that 1.2 million people once paid for copies of their album “Silk and Steel” in this country alone. This blog has been logged into a mere 1,500 times. And yet you don’t even have to pay a single penny to come and look at this shite!

Wed 1st April 2009

2009-04-01T22:10:00.001+01:00

Happy new financial year! I hope all you self employed people got your tax done in time. I used to hate this time of year when I was self employed. I feel for you. All that trying to salvage a load of creased, slightly ripped illegible scraps of paper from every orifice in your bedroom, promising yourself that you’ll be more organised next year. Yes, I certainly don’t miss that at all now I’m fully employed. I used to get really paranoid about receipts I’d lost, how much I’d end up being taxed, and whether I’d have enough in the bank to cover the balance when the bill finally arrived. By the way, this isn’t some weird boastfulness – I’m not trying to say that I’d earned such a great amount of money I would subsequently anticipate being taxed a small fortune. If anything, this is more a proclamation of how bad I always was at being self-employed; perpetually having such a small amount tucked in the bank because I earned so little. Thankfully these times are all behind me now. And perversely, rather than having my bank account damaged, I actually get some pay arrears in my pay packet nowadays, so April sees me as a payee rather than a payer. Not that I’m trying to rub it in and make anyone who is self-employed feel worse. We’ve all got our crosses to bear. For example, this new financial year sees the inconvenience of my car parking pass expiring. Due to budget cuts, they have not been replaced either. Irritatingly I only remembered this fact once I had driven half-way to work.

I considered my options (or indeed lack of them). I could park in town, but the price of city centre car parks are pretty extortionate. It would be a pretty demoralising thought, knowing that a significant percentage of my hourly wage was being earned by an inanimate car park space. I couldn’t drop my car home and use the bus either. The busses run so infrequently from my suburban village that it’d be nearing dinnertime by the time I finally got to work.

When I arrived near town, I resolved to drive around the surrounding outer areas of the city looking for a street I could park in for free. It was a pleasant morning and I was more than happy to have a nice walk into the City. I drove around for ages looking for somewhere to pull up, but of course, a good proportion of City workers have a similar idea; and seeing as my working day starts an hour later than the more typical 9am start, finding a space was nigh on impossible. Eventually I had little choice but to accept the monetary loss of using the car park (ironically had I been self-employed, the fee would have been tax-deductable).

I opted to use the car park I used to have a parking pass for. I am nostalgic like that. As I pulled up at the barrier, I fidgeted around in my wallet looking to scrabble together the vast amounts of cash required. But to my delight, as I looked up, the barrier was lifting for me, so I was able to simply drive in for free. The man in the booth must have remembered my face as someone who has a parking pass and didn’t even bother to check whether it was up to date! Not that I’m complaining or anything. It is refreshing for these entries to finish with something positive rather than being the miserable grumble-fest it usually is. If only the Inland Revenue had the same attention for detail as the Wolverhampton Car Parks staff, then maybe everyone could have a happy April 1st.

Mon 30th Mar 2009

2009-03-30T21:53:00.000+01:00

I have been finding it difficult to go to the gym on an evening, and am averaging about two trips a week as opposed to the four or five times per week I was visiting last year. Typically, I prefer to blame this on the gym rather than myself. It is a lot more crowded nowadays, and finding a locker and queuing for machines and showers seems too much of a pain in the arse for me to be bothered with at the end of a long working day. This is of course piffle and I am merely creating excuses for my laziness. My brain is stupid. If the gym really was too crowded of an evening, my noggin should have worked out by now that it’s be best to cancel my membership and find a quieter gym. But I never do, because I know my brain is only trying to mislead me.

I am still hopeful of getting back into a healthy shape. This morning was due to be a ‘fresh start’. If I do not want to exercise after work, it is reasonable to assume I could easily get up earlier in the morning instead and head over to the gym before work. On paper, this seems like a great idea. Not only does this sound like a really invigorating way to start the day (making a nice change from the usual bleary-eyed view with which I usually begin work), I am also humouring my stupid brain, which can no longer use the gym busyness factor as a get out clause. The gym is always quiet in the morning, obviously. Let’s face it, what sort of people go to the gym that early in the morning? Freaks and weirdoes, that’s all.

So last night I set my alarm, rather ambitiously, for 6.45am. It has been so long since I’ve actually seen 6.45am, that I was rather dubious as to whether 6.45am still exists. I suppose if someone is never conscious enough to 6.45am, then it sort of is just a loose concept, in the same way that a falling tree needs to be heard in order to make a sound.

Setting my alarm for 6.45am seemed like an excellent idea before I went to bed. Yet when 6.45am arrived, the quality of this idea now became severely compromised. So compromised in fact, that I’d even go as far as to say that the previous ‘excellence’ of the idea had now become completely subverted to become the worst idea that anyone had ever had, ever.

As the alarm chirped me into some form of drowsy submergence of consciousness, my initial reaction was to turn it off immediately, and forget this stupidly foolish idea immediately. Getting up is hard enough at the best of times, but getting up when you’ve still got the option of an extra hour and half in bed is near insanity! Yet somehow (and don’t ask me how), I managed to resist the luring temptation of the duvet. To my great surprise, I suddenly found myself in an upright position, (albeit drowsily) pulling clothes over myself. The next thing knew, my gym bag was slung over my shoulder and I was heading out to my car. I really was doing it!

It is a particularly crappy journey to the gym, through some hell hole Heath Town. It took a lot longer than I expected it to. I was rather surprised to learn that apparently there are quite a lot of people on the roads at 8am. It gave me a new appreciation that I am usually lucky enough to miss the rush-hour. My working day doesn’t start until 10am, so most of the traffic has subsided by the time I usually set out of the house. And even though my intended exercise time would be somewhat compromised, I rather relished the opportunity to hear the ‘Today’ programme and get a rare window into current affairs. Apparently Jacqui Smith’s expenses have paid for pornographic videos.

When I pulled up onto the gym car-park, I had a quick check through my sports bag.

Tracksuit? Check.

Clean underwear? Check.

Shower gel? Check.

Mp3 player? Check.

Water bottle? Check.

Towel?...

TOWEL??

This would be the precise moment when my good mood and sense of motivation and achievement abruptly faded; becoming overwhelmed by an intense irritation. No towel meant no shower, and it would not be an option to do sweaty exercise, then head straight off for a day’s work without having a shower. Similarly, it was no longer worth driving all the way home to fetch a towel and return with it to the gym, because that wouldn’t have left me with hardly any time to exercise. I was truly gutted.

All that was left to do was to turn the car around and head back home. Could this possibly be more infuriating? Oh, the tragedy of it! With the best intent, I had done the hard part; I had managed to get out of bed at some God forsaken hour. And for what purpose? Effectively just to take some grim, prolonged, petrol-wasting journey around the shit-hole of Heath Town.

I was very agitated as I dejectedly drove to work (not the invigorating start to the working week I’d envisaged), but I have calmed down since. This may have something to do with the fatigue from having had such an early start. But I will endeavour to try again tomorrow.

Fri 27th Mar 2009

2009-03-27T21:51:00.000Z

A long day at work today. Had to work late. We had a band called N-Dubz appearing. No, I’d not really heard of them either. They are a band for the kids. The kids absolutely love them they do. Yep – they’re certainly hip with da kids, them N-Dubz are. And when I say “the kids” love em, I really do mean THE KIDS. Most of the audience were about 14 years old. Should I feel fortunate to be somehow involved at the pulse of this apparently, cutting-edge phenomena? Well let me tell you, working with N-Dubz does not make me feel hip. I’m just too old to be feeling it; too preoccupied by the worry that I’m some sort of surrogate guardian of a room full of squawking juveniles. They’re nothing like the ill-at-ease, angst-ridden teenagers of my day. They get all excitable about stuff. They run about being all self-assured; screaming and fainting and always seem on the verge of some hyper-actively inspired misbehaviour. Ordinarily I would feel uncomfortable being in the presence of four of them sitting on the back seat of a bus journey I was sharing, but being responsible for the welfare of a thousand of the buggers is inevitably makes for a buttock clenching evening from start to finish. I go through the night with an anticipation of dread that all this young energy will bubble up and explode into some sort of disastrous consequence which I would feel hopelessly equipped to deal with.

As you can probably tell, these are not my favourite shows to be working. Given the choice, I would avoid such nights like the plague. But I’m sure all my colleagues have a pretty similar attitude toward such these shifts, so there is a kind of burdening, unavoidable obligation to take a turn with them once in a while. If there was a way to weasel out of them, I certainly would; and tonight I had a brain-wave. I figured that if I could just get myself on that sex offenders register thing, then I’d no longer be allowed to work with the younger market. My burden would be lifted forever more. Luckily the evening has passed without incident, so for the moment at least, such action does not seem necessary. Still, it’s nice to have an option of a ‘get out of jail free’ card, banked away at the back of my mind.

Thu 26th Mar 2009

2009-03-27T21:45:00.000Z

I was walking past a telephone box when it suddenly started ringing. I entered the booth and picked up the phone. To my surprise, it was my sister on the other end of the line. She informed me that my car had been stolen. Apparently, I had left the keys in the ignition and the thieves had smashed through the window and driven my car. I hung the phone up and walked round the corner to where my car had been parked. She was right. It was gone. All that remained was a few shards of glass on the floor. Then I woke up.

Thankfully it had all been a dream. I pulled on my clothes, munched on my breakfast and headed out to my car. It was only when I turned the ignition key that in real life, I noticed the crack in my windscreen, which occurred a couple of months ago had increased by a fair few inches.

Isn’t this dream weird? Firstly, how did my sister know which phone box I’d happen to be walking by when she rang? More to the point, why didn’t she just contact me via my mobile phone? Clearly, I was nearer to the car than her – how did she know it had been stolen in the first place? If she was nearby when it happened, why didn’t she just jog round the corner to tell me? Or had she phoned around every phone box in the vicinity in the hope that I’d happen to be walking by? If I had left my keys in the ignition, then inevitably I wouldn’t have been able to lock the car. Why didn’t these hapless thieves just open the door using the handle rather than smashing the window and potentially drawing attention to the crime?

The answers to all these questions are easy to explain. It was a dream. Dreams are weird and often make little sense. But what about the windscreen crack, which I had noticed had expanded the morning after the dream. Some people would argue this seems a bit weird, like my dream was some sort of premonition. These are the same people that would believe in spirits and ghosties and ghoulies and an omnipresent old man in the sky that watches and judges us. But I am confident that these people are wrong on all counts. I have just finished reading the atheist bible, “The God Delusion” by Richard Dawkins. It really is an excellent read. I have always been an atheist at heart, but have actually been trying to maintain agnosticism; if only as a kind of politeness to those of faith. More crucially, I was also once prescribed the belief that faith in ‘other powers’ was necessary for a fulfilling and creative existence. My scepticism always felt like a hindrance; that people with a third-party faith were always going to be better equipped to succeed their high ambitions. In my experience, people who lived with the attitude, “Jump and the net will appear”, generally seem to achieve more personal fulfilment in their lives than those empty cynics who merely exist. Maybe non-spirituality really is a disadvantage? As Julia Cameron writes about the other-wordly guiding force of synchronicity,

“It’s my experience that we’re much more afraid that there might be a God than we are that there might not be.. People talk about how dreadful it would be if there were no God. I think such talk is hooey. Most of us are a lot more comfortable feeling we’re not being watched too closely. If God – an all-powerful and all-knowing force - does not exist, well then, we’re all off the hook aren’t we? There’s no divine retribution. And if the whole experience stinks-ah well. What did you expect? If there is no God, then everything can roll along as always and we can feel quite justified in declaring certain [self development] impossible, other things unfair. If God, or lack of God, is responsible for the state of the world, then we can resign ourselves to apathy. What’s the use? Why change anything? Anyone honest will tell you that possibility is far more frightening than impossibility.”

This quotation comes from a well-meaning self-help book. In fairness, it is an otherwise reasonable and motivating work. But this passage always jarred me. Partly because I knew belief the existence of a ‘guiding hand’ largely improbable, which would imply it of limited use to me. Partly because it is almost a ‘challenge’ to believe (it is seems very logical suggest one is more afraid that there might be God than there might not be). Everyone likes a challenge, but this challenge was too difficult. But what is being implied as an alternative? No-one wants to see themselves solely as a victim of circumstance, resigning to apathy. Can hopeless apathy be the only fate for an atheist?

This is an example of faith is being used in a well-meaning fashion. Yet it is a notion of faith which troubled me, making me feel at a disadvantage; belief sold as the mechanics of achievement. It all seems so easy to deconstruct now, but by virtue of a third-party faith being something I could not subscribe to, ultimately this book made me dishearteningly condemned. If a little belief in synchronicity is necessary in fulfilling ambition, then I would forever long for nothing more than to be a believer.

It is only after reading The God Delusion two years later that I have been able to resolve my feelings about this matter. Dawkins has articulated my own thoughts; a justification of hope and ambition, without the necessity of third-party faith;

“How lucky we are to be alive, given that the vast majority of people who could potentially be thrown up by the combinatorial lottery of DNA will never in fact be born. For those of us lucky enough to be here, I pictured the relative brevity of life by imagining a laser-thin spotlight creeping along a gigantic ruler of time. Everything before or after the spotlight is shrouded in darkness of the dead past, or the darkness of the unknown future. We are staggeringly lucky to find ourselves in the spotlight. However brief our time in the sun, if we waste a second of it, or complain that it is dull or barren or (like a child) boring, couldn’t this be seen as a callous insult to those unborn trillions who will never even be offered life in the first place? The knowledge we have only one life should make it all the more precious. Art and science are runaway manifestations of this bonus.”

After reading this, I am warmed by a sense of self-importance and affirmation just in the act of being. There is no longer need to feel the slightest futility or despair just because I don’t believe in any “nets that will appear” should I jump. Such clichés are cosy and nice if you can subscribe to them, but seem of no logical basis. To be honest, I feel a bit embarrassed I ever lost faith in my lack of faith, if you get what I mean. It’s like I was taken in by a kind of toytown theological theorem I have simply been ill-equipped to dispute. I am sure I will look back at this entry with a degree of shame. It would be an exceptional folly were it the fruit of teenage philosophical angst; yet I am a 31 year old man. But for now I intend to bask in this new sense of having been licensed such affirmation and inspiration. We are indeed lucky to be here, and our very insignificance should be everything we need to make the most of our lives. Rather than being at a disadvantage, I feel emancipated from any psychological necessity for a spiritual guiding hand. Could this actually be the most positive entry I have blogged thus far? This truly has been a Day of Enlightenment, which has given me a new motivation. There is so much left for me to do with my brief time on this Earth.

For starters I resolve to get up early and finally sort that damn windscreen out.

Wed 25th Mar 2009

2009-03-25T21:35:00.000Z

When I woke up this morning, I wouldn’t have dreamt I’d be spending £130 in an Interflora shop. I am not much of a flower buyer. I don’t see their appeal, even as presents. I am not saying this to try and cultivate some sort of macho image (and let me assure you, my use of the word ‘cultivate’ is not supposed to be in any way an ironic ‘link’ to the subject I am discussing). The only thing me and Titchmarch have in common is our taste in jumpers.

It has always struck me that flowers are genuinely an odd thing to buy someone. It’s like saying, “Here you are - I have decided to articulate my feelings towards my relationship with you by buying something that slowly withers and decays.” It wouldn’t be so bad if the flowers that were commonly given as gifts were of the edible type, but they never are. To me, the purchase of flowers are the short-hand revelation of a redundant imagination. Should I be so devoid of a gift idea, I would rather spend my money on a present that is more practical, like a four-way plug adaptor.

If someone wants to see flowers, then why don’t they just go for a nice walk in a country park or some public gardens? Surely it is better to get some fresh air than gawp at something on a window-sill anyway. And even if the effort of walking seems too much, there are now lots of nice, traffic islands and embankments that are decorated with flowers, which can easily be viewed through the screen of a car. At least you do not have to maintain these flowers or go to all that kerfuffle of putting them in vases and the like to make them look presentable. Why spend money on something you can enjoy as a part of nature anyway? You wouldn’t buy six bottles of spring water for a present would you? And yet six bottles of spring water would serve as a much more practical gift. Especially if the recipient was a keen tennis player or was planning a picnic on a hot summer’s day.

I am such a romantic.

Nevertheless, I had to buy 31 small rose pots for an event today. They were for the tables of an awards ceremony we were hosting at work. Clearly I do not consider myself the best person to have been making this purchase. I simply do not understand the etiquette of flowers. This is not to say I do not appreciate the beauty of flowers, it’s just that I’m oblivious to the flower language. Apparently, different flowers are suited to different occasions. For all I know, I could have been buying bereavement condolence flowers, which would of course look completely inappropriate for a celebratory occasion in which awards were being handed out. I was also a bit worried that potted flowers might look aesthetically wrong plonked in the middle of a table.

I have always been this way. At school, we were once set an art homework in which we had to draw a plant in a pot. I failed my assignment , becoming the subject of class ridicule after drawing a flower in a vase. I genuinely didn’t realise there was such a significant difference between the two.

The table flowers I bought didn’t look too bad in the end, but this was more by luck than judgement. This has not raised my confidence and I still consider flower-buying as a minefield. Albeit a colourful minefield with some decorative blossom on it.

Tue 24th Mar 2009

2009-03-24T23:50:00.000Z

So I failed. I am a big loser.

My resolution was to keep a blog for every day this year. But now I have left a gaping week-and-a-day long hole with no entries at all. What a cop-out! It is almost disrespectful, to you the reader of this stupid task - this stupid, now-unfulfilled task.

I suppose the only thing for me to do is pick up from here and try to turn over a new leaf. Maybe my un-blogged days will now just be a missing week which can only remain to be speculated about.

Yes - I rather like the sound of that! It’s almost good enough to justify my journal scribing laziness. It sounds full of mystique – a bit like John Lennon’s ‘lost weekend’ or something. Anything could have happened. For all anyone knows, perhaps my behaviour has been so debauched over the last 6 days, that I’d rather keep them hidden.

Thinking about it, whenever you hear about Lennon’s lost weekend, there is little more than scraps of vague, spindly accounts of a man falling off the rails, indulging in the excesses of booze, drugs and sexual promiscuity; and in a way, last week was a little like that for me too. Don’t get me wrong – I’m not comparing myself to John Lennon or anything. All I’m saying is that there were some genuine similarities to my own personal ‘lost week’.

There was certainly some boozing done. So what that our local drinking establishment is a village pub, and ensures a limited excess by ringing last orders at ten to eleven? In my mind this still technically counts as boozing.

There was also some drug taking. So what that these drugs were pro-biotic capsules, used to quell the storm of my irritable bowel? In my mind these still technically counts as druggings.

There was also sexual promiscuity in my lost week too. So what that this was all done in a forum of morose self- pleasure? Once again, in my mind it still technically counts.

So there you have it. I’ll leave it to the imagination of others to speculate what else I could have possibly been up to.

Let’s try and see this entry as a fresh start, eh? We’ll see how it goes from here.

Sun 15th Mar 2009

2009-03-15T22:28:00.000Z

For such a misanthrope, I got a large number of birthday cards and messages offering me congratulations. I’m not exactly sure what I was being congratulated for. Shouldn’t congratulations more aptly follow some big success or achievement? As far as I can see, I have achieved very little beyond sitting and here and existing for the last 31 years. It’s hardly some great feat of humanity; anyone could do that, given the appropriate amount of time. It certainly doesn’t seem a triumph remarkable enough to justify congratulations. You other humans are weird. Don’t get me wrong, you’re nice – but still very weird (although having said that, my hypochondriac nature constantly reminds me that each passing year might possibly be my last; and in the face of such pessimism, I suppose survival does seem like some sort of personal achievement. So on balance, maybe humans are actually cleverer than I give them credit for).

I went for a Sunday dinner with my mom (as per every Sunday). We went to the pub we’d been to before in this entry here. Rather than being desolate like last time, there was a christening party on.

My mom asked for her usual child’s portion, but the girl behind the bar said they could only be sold to Under 12’s and refused to let her order it, literally forcing her to wastefully buy an adult’s meal. To be honest, I thought this was a bit mean. It was perfectly acceptable for my Mom to buy a child’s portion the last time we visited the same pub; in fact I have previously documented the evidence of it here (though I foolishly neglected to mention the name of the establishment, so have probably inadvertently waivered any legal impression on the matter). This irritation was confounded by the fact that due to the christening party, we weren’t even allowed to eat in the dining area. We collected our carvery (which astonishingly had more miserly meat portions than last time) and were banished to the bar to eat, carrying our plates through the restaurant bit like we were shameful outsiders, collecting rations from a soup kitchen. It seemed short-sighted being so uncompromising not allowing my mother to buy a child’s portion, when we were fully expected to accept such a compromised service. We had to eat our meal from a small bar table in the corner of the room, tucked behind the pool table.

Although lacking the luxury of space, initially it wasn’t so bad; at least until some children from the christening party decided they want to play pool. I was literally trying to eat my meal, whilst having to duck from left to right whenever they needed to take particular shots at the table. At one point, I was balancing some cauliflower on my folk to be interrupted by a pool ball which had shot off the table and clattered at my feet. This made my mom jump a little, and in her shock, she accidentally spat two small bits of cabbage across the table. Honestly, the way I was trying to traverse my plate away from all that flying debris, I almost thought I was playing the vintage arcade game ‘Asteroids’ .

Please don’t get me wrong, I am not moaning or blaming my mom for any of this farcical meal, nor am I trying to chastise her for a bit of flying cabbage. Having gone through all the excruciating pain of childbirth 31 years ago today for the benefit of my very being, this would be very disrespectful to say about her. Believe me - I really was a fat little git too, and the fact that she would have gone through all that pain to squeeze me out really does seem like a genuinely humbling achievement. Surely it is more of an achievement than the one we were actually celebrating, which has essentially consisted of little more than managing to breathe for 31 years. Yet my mother didn’t even get a single, solitary gift, card or message. All she has been rewarded with is a seemingly personal and facetious grumble on a blog about table manners by her brattish 31-year old son. We certainly live in an unjust world.

I would like to conclude this entry by redressing the balance a little. Obviously I cannot exactly ‘congratulate’ my mother for having me (how vain, assumptive and egotistical a declaration would it seem, saying “Hey, congratulations! You gave birth to ME of all of all people, you should be very proud!”), but congratulate her on the achievement of getting through childbirth. I’d also like to thank her for all the immense pain she endured on my behalf.

For the sake of balance, I should also probably take this opportunity to thank my Dad too. Let’s not forget his achievements in the childbearing process. Not quite sure what they were specifically, I must admit. Off the top of my head, I suppose I should show him gratitude for having the restraint not to ‘knock one out’ earlier in the afternoon on my day of conception.

And having evoked such an image, it is probably best to put the subject away, for another year at least. I do hope my parents are proud of me.

Sat 14th Mar 2009

2009-03-14T22:28:00.000Z

It is my birthday tomorrow. My sister gave me a four-pack of Guinness, as a gift from my nephew. At 14 months of age, it is quite astonishing that he knows me so well. This was almost a perfect gift. However I can’t help feeling a certain sense of disquiet.

Don’t get me wrong, my nephew is very clever and is clearly developing at a pace more rapid than his age. But considering that he cannot articulate anything more than a clumsy delivery of the most rudimentary words and often needs assistance getting certain shaped blocks of plastic into correspondent holes, I suspect he may not have bought this gift his self. Being 14 months old, I can’t see how even the most liberal of off-license retailers would have served him. I strongly suspect this is a sham and it was in fact his parents were the ones who actually decided upon and purchased this gift.

I have always been in awe of my sibling and her husband’s devoted parenting skills, but I worry they are now sabotaging this high esteem. In legal terms, they are technically claiming that their 14-month-old son has purchased four cans of Guinness. Surely this would not look very favorable towards him if this purchase ever came to light in any judicial process. They clearly haven’t thought the consequences of their actions through. For parents I hold in such high regard, such irresponsibility seems almost incomprehensible. By passing off the purchase of an alcoholic gift by a 14-month old child, don’t they see how they’re incriminating themselves by buying beer for a minor. In isolation, I could just about stand this. But they were also being short-sighted of the implications their actions would have on the innocently unwitting parties, such as the retailer who sold it; and more significantly, their own son himself.

Of course, in order to verify the exact level of moral and legal untoward that occurred, I must remember to take a surreptitious check of the young boy’s savings balance for any value-corresponding transactions. Then I’ll be able to tell if he was personally the monetary (therefore legal), purchaser of these beverages. If I see the price of a four pack of Guinness has been withdrawn from his balance, it will technically be some transactional evidence of alcohol having been bought by an underage. Which is a shame, because the appropriation of a fantasy fairy-tale world where a nephew obliges his uncle with gifts of Guinness, is a world-view I see as being rather beneficial for me.

But sadly the law is still the law. Lest we forget, in real terms this is a customer that isn’t even 18 months old yet, let alone 18 years. And rules are put in place for a reason, no matter how pedantic and unnecessary their technical implications may seem. They still need to be obliged by everyone, for the sake of a soundly functioning society. It doesn’t matter whether they’re family or not.

Wed 11th Mar 2009

2009-03-12T22:23:00.000Z

I had to stay late at work tonight. There were some people who wanted to view the hall, and could not make it before 7.30pm, so I offered to hang on for a couple of hours because I’m rather nice. Typically my appointment turned up late, which made me feel like my good nature was being stretched. Additionally, it transpired that there were so many different people arriving for the viewing that it took ages to get them round the hall, as they’d keep stopping to chat and debate between themselves about their proposed event in punishing detail. I certainly did not foresee myself leaving work after half eight, but that’s exactly what happened.

In the end, I had to drop subtle hints by passing odd comments such as, “Oh well, better push on, otherwise my dinner’s in the dog.” just to hurry them up a little.

The Chinese whisper effect of “dinners in the dog” comment soon morphed around the collective and was soon being interpreted that my wife (who I haven’t got) had thrown my dinner in the bin. Should this strange assumption that I was married been taken as a compliment? I can’t really tell. At least I do not visibly exhude an air of being lonely and desperate I suppose. Or maybe I do, and that’s why they’d assumed I was married.

I am rubbish at the whole being complimented thing anyway. Never been able to trust them, to be honest. When I finally got the gaggle to the door ready to leave, one of them commented, “You look like you’ve lost a bit of weight since I last saw you.”

Now – although probably well intended - that’s actually the worst possible thing you can possibly say to a chronic hypochondriac! Rather than interpreting this as a good thing, I immediately started questioning why the comment had been chosen. My gym regime has slackened of late. I have been eating more desserts than ever. I’m drinking Guinness like a fish (not that fish drink Guinness- it would be like cannibalism with all them finings). What could possibly have bought on such weight loss? The only rational explanation I could think of was that I was succumbing to some sort of terminal illness.

At least it gave me something to dwell on when I finally got back home.

Mon 9th Mar 2009

2009-03-12T22:21:00.000Z

We’ve been asked to ensure our offices are manned at all times throughout the working day, so there is always someone to answer the phones.

Well, durr!!

It seemed an odd and unnecessary request. I share mine with 2 other colleagues, which means there is always perpetually at least one person in the office at all times. I took mock offence in the underlying implication that we must be frequent ‘skivers’ and ‘deserters’.

“I didn’t mean it like that…” he stuttered, “I’m just saying.. One of you could go off for dinner… and sure, there’d still be two of you here to keep an eye on the phones. But what if both of you needed the toilet? The office would be unmanned then wouldn’t it?”

You’ve got to admire this attempt of justification, but it didn’t make the statement any less bizarre. Are two of us really that likely to head off to the toilet at the same time? I suppose it is possible, but in reality it’s neither very likely nor practical. For starters, how would it work exactly? Assumedly one would sit down on the porcelain first, then the other would have to try and aim their spray of urine into the hole between their legs. This seems like a difficult skill to master. And I for one have neither the time nor inclination to bother trying. Even if I could manage such an action, I’d probably just keep it to myself rather than inviting a work colleague to join me in a tandem toilet trip. I’d rather be accused of being a deserter than a pervert.

Sat 7th Mar 2009

2009-03-12T22:19:00.000Z

Got taken to a shop on an industrial retail park today. The shop was called ‘Sports World’. I had never been to ‘Sports World’ before. For it is not the type of shop name that I’d presume to have much relevance to me.

For some reason (possibly due to its moniker), I imagined ‘Sports World’ would sell ‘Sports’ from around the ‘World’. Or at least various equipment from the ‘World’ of ‘Sports’. There was a little bit of sporting equipment – a few balls, and some other bits and bobs. But not much. At least not enough to justify a name called ‘Sports World’.

Mostly, ‘Sports World’ sold a range of clothes and footwear. The type of clothes and footwear sold at ‘Sport World’ were those I see most commonly adorned by people who populate the queue in the pasty shop ‘Greggs’, with their tracksuits and their trainers and their pale greasy faces.

To be honest, those people do not look particularly indulgent of a ‘World’ of ‘Sport’. Is the name ‘Sports World’ actually supposed to be ironic?

Given such logic, and liberal license, maybe Greggs could rename themselves ‘The Health Food’ shop.

Fri 6th Mar 2009

2009-03-11T23:55:00.001Z

This evening I met up with some old friends at the pub. I have not seen some of them very much of over the last seven or eight years, yet fourteen years ago this particular collection of people would have often been spotted together round a table of a Saturday night. Inevitably we have all moved on since then, and nowadays most of them have family commitments. I must confess I became overwhelmed with by an indulgent epiphany. I know it is a cliché to mention, but it feels strange that we have aged. Glancing round the table, I noticed how flabby our faces had become, how far our hairlines had receeded and our guts expanded. Back then, we talked about football, pop music and drunken incidents from the previous week. Nowadays we seemed to talk about work, houses or wives and children. In fact as if to emphasise how much older we’d become, one of them even talked about a hip operation he was due, which is the type of aged conversation we would never have even anticipated entering the agenda all those years ago. It suppose it seemed particularly poignant because at least four of those six decaying faces were the same ones who had taken me to my first ever concert in 1993. I was only a mid-teenager back then and what an experience it had been. I remember how much I’d been looking forward to the show for months beforehand. Then the day finally arrived and I hurried into the venue, heading straight over to the merchandise stand to buy myself a t-shirt (most of which were too expensive for my paperboy’s wage, but thankfully they were selling some left-over cheaply that had last year’s tour dates printed on the back). I remember my friends stood in the bar ordering pints. At the time they were old enough, but I was still too young to drink (of course when I say drink, I specifically mean alcohol. I was allowed other liquids, and in fact have found them rather necessary in order for survival.) I remember the anticipation I felt whilst standing in the midst of the tight crowd waiting for the band to come on, trying to slip my precious new discount t-shirt over the top of my other clothing since it seemed the easiest way to ‘carry’ it. I distinctly remember the struggle, trying to peel it over by other layers of clothing in a desperate search to find the arm-hole; then when I eventually located it, I pushed my arm through it with such vigor, I ended up punching the person next to me in the face. I remember the profuse level of apologies leaving my mouth as I secretly prayed to myself that I hadn’t inadvertently started a fight, (particularly as I only still had one arm in a sleeve so felt too vulnerable protect myself). I remember trying to get my other arm in and then accidentally punching someone else in the face on the other side and following that with a similar ritual of apology (though at least I would be in a better equipped to shield myself this time should any attacks have happened). I remember trying to scramble towards the front and the atmosphere when the band finally took to the stage. I remember the volume of the PA. I remember the big lights. I remember all the sweat (I was wearing three layers after all). I remember the adrenalin of the crowd surge. Yes - that first surge you get near the front of a gig crowd was truly thrilling, and if I’m honest, a little bit frightening too. It was like a strange loss of control, as the tide of people pulled me from left to right. Maybe it was the fear that made it so thrilling, but I do also genuinely remember spending the first five minutes apologizing to the people around me for treading on their toes. But no-body seemed to care. In fact, they were treading all over my feet too, without the slightest hint of concern. I know it now seems weird and sad that I stood there trying to apologise in the middle of a ‘mosh pit’, but you have to remember I was virginal at the time (to concerts I mean, although the more authentic use of the word would also have been just as appropriate).

Nevertheless I clearly must have enjoyed myself because after that night I used to don my paper bag to brave the wind and the rain or stand elbow-deep in a greasy washing up bowl, driven by the glimmer of hope from the next concert ticket I could afford. It seemed like a time of such simple dreams. Fast forward to now, and ironically I am working at that very same concert hall. But rather than saving money to spend my leisure time there, it is now my job to be there, and by default I cannot wait for the working day to finish so I can leave the place. Strange how things turn out.

So as we sat around the table together, it felt weird how lives had changed. For starters we were now all old enough to drink. We all had different concerns now, and the passage of time has subdued us. We would certainly not be going to a concert or a nightclub afterwards either. Our hips just couldn’t take all that pushing and shoving nowadays. And the most depressing thing about it is that for one of our party, this is actually a genuine statement, completely devoid of irony.

Thu 5th Mar 2009

2009-03-09T21:56:00.000Z

This year has not just the year in which I have had a new mug; it is a whole new ‘tea making’ dawn. We have had our office kettle replaced. I will miss the charm of the old one. It was like a small plastic chimney of dirty white, and I’d almost become accustomed to the small crutons of lime-scale with which it used to garnish your beverage. But I am generally more pleased with the new investment. It is undeniably more aesthetic; smaller, rounder and silvery new. Much conventionally closer to how you’d expect a kettle to appear.

A new kettle may well seem a triviality, but its differing shape inevitably means the hissing noise emitted whilst heating is slightly different, which has an impact that should not be underestimated. Its sound has the power to bring a whole new ambience to the office. And as for the act of tea-making itself? Well, this model has its handle arched over the top of the cylinder - our old one was more a hole in the side. The switch on the new one is longer and has a rather gentle, and thoroughly more satisfying ‘click’. It is pleasing to operate. Given time, I suspect the novelty of this switch may fade. Otherwise it might become an obsession that’s on and off for years to come.

Wed 4th Mar 2009

2009-03-09T21:53:00.000Z

Hope University in Liverpool today announced that they will start offering an Arts Degree in studies about The Beatles. Yes that’s right – you didn’t read the sentence incorrectly – they really are offering an academic degree on the life and work of the pop band The Beatles. Alas it appears that the life & work of Cud has been cruelly overlooked again. I am not sure what qualifications are required as a pre-requisite to getting on the course, but do not fret if you are not very academic, as there are other similar (but slightly inferior) routes to take. For instance you could do an NVQ qualification in Oasis studies.
Ha Ha – I am hilarious.

Facetiousness aside, I believe it is important The Beatles should be discussed in an educational context, given the historical, cultural, artistic, sociological and musical impact of their legacy. However, I’d have thought the impact of their legacy would have been studied within an existing academic context; such as history, sociology, Cultural Studies, Art, English literature film studies or music rather than something in its own entity. Is it all part of Liverpool’s development as a mawkish theme park, whose ‘theme’ is concerned specifically with its own historical and cultural self-promotion? I certainly can’t image what sort of career would follow the attainment of a Beatles degree (at least a study of the life and work of Cud may at some point lead to financial gain if one were to find themselves at a particular quiz machine).

Although why should I be placing so much importance on the relationship between education and careerism? Sure, a theoretical subject like Theology can be a career-path to a big business. But at least there is more evidence that The Beatles actually existed in real life than God. And when you think about it, given their continuing influence on contemporary culture this makes the Beatles comparatively more relevant, significant and viable as a subject of study. Not that I am suggesting that The Beatles are bigger than Jesus Christ or anything. That would be a stupid thing to say.

Tue 3rd Mar 2009

2009-03-03T20:53:00.002Z

You’ve got to have a hobby. Some people play sports. Others view the miraculous heavens through a telescope. Mine is to collect amusing Spam. By Spam, I do not mean the pinkish-grey tubes of meat, but rather the cold-call emails that often offer to expand one’s pinkish-grey tubes of meat. I even have a special email folder for storing any particular favourite subject lines. Messages are more likely to qualify for the ‘keepers’ list if they fall under one of the following categories; 1) absurd innuendo 2) appallingly explicit misogyny 3) descriptive vileness 4) genuine wit.

Here are my top 10 favourite Sapam messages so far this year:-

Number 10
“3 ways to turn any woman to a fountain of response and desire.”

Number 9
“Beat her womb with your new big rod, so that she knew who wears the pants!”

Number 8
“If you've got a small dic'k, don't blame your parents, just think how to increase it”

Number 7
“Slap that ass of hers!.”
”
Number 6
Don't you think it's time you stopped being a loser with a tiny pen!s?

Number 5
“Fill her twat to the limits”

Number 4
“Pound your lady into submission nightly”

Number 3
“If your warrior of love is too small, you may lose this war”

Number 2 (a close 2nd)
Your new pecker in the mail

But my favourite SPAM message of the year so far, has to be…

Number 1
“The Loin King”

A blog is a great place to utilize these otherwise lost little gems. Please let me know if you happen to chance upon any great Spam message titles (or indeed fake sender's names) that you’d like to share.